


Remember Her

by Jewels (bjewelled)



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen, templar!Carver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 02:19:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjewelled/pseuds/Jewels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Carver Hawke, and his journey to becoming a Knight of the Order of Templars. It's not an easy choice to make, especially when your whole family are mages, and what must a man like Carver, who has never been a religious sort, have to go through to become a Templar, especially with the pressure of living up to his older sister on his shoulders?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So there I was, writing a fairly long fic which in no small part features Carver as a main character. Now, let me make something quite clear: Carver annoyed the hell out of me for the whole time he was in DA2. He was an annoying little git who made me want to box his ears. I was GLAD when he got shipped off at the end of act one. And then, as I wrote him, determined to treat him as a real character, a real person, in spite of his irritating qualities, something occurred to me: of all the possible options for the sibling's end of act one disappearance, Carver is the only one who has an option that is motivated by choice, and his own free will. He didn't die, didn't get recruited to the Wardens (with death as an alternative, that wasn't a choice, besides which, it's a decision that gets made by the PC), didn't get hauled off to the Circle ala Bethany, he **chose** to join the Templars.
> 
> And then I couldn't help but wonder what drove him to join a corps of warrior priests. It's a question that never gets answered in any real depth during the course of DA2, and so I found myself, in that longer fic, suddenly writing out his history. At that point, I realised I had to give him his own story, rather than rush it through in a thousand word summation. So, here it is. I never set out to try and make him likable, I just found myself wondering: why? This is the answer I come up with.

If anyone were to ask Carver when he decided to join the Templars, he would have said it was in a moment of spite. However, the truth of it was that the idea came to him in the Blooming Rose, his hands fisted in the blonde locks of a woman whose name almost certainly wasn't "Candescence" as she diligently licked and sucked him to a rather mediocre completion. Still, Carver wasn't going to complain overmuch, you got what you paid for after all, and he didn't have much in the way of coin left after his _darling_ sister had taken the fifty sovereigns necessary to fund the Dwarven expedition and then left him behind like he hadn't sacrificed just as much as she had to get where they were.

She probably would have been disgusted with him to know what he was up to at the Blooming Rose. She'd known about his patronage of the place as they worked off their contract over the last year, and had never failed to make her disapproval known. He'd never bothered telling her that the only reason that he'd gone before was because the other smugglers took him along, and it was easier to fit in, even if you only had a drink at the bar, if you did so. He couldn't get along with magic. He had to work hard to fit in.

In fact, he thought, with a distinct lack of amusement, the only way she could possibly disapprove of him more was if he went and joined the Templars.

Of all the thoughts that went through his head as he lay there on the just-about-clean sheets, that thought was the only one to stay with him as Candescence finished her task, and he went through the process of redressing, straightening his hair, and flipping her an extra silver piece as a tip. Her eyes lit up as she caught it, and in spite of her lack of clothing it disappeared quickly. Quite a trick.

He took his time meandering out of Hightown and down into the Lowtown hexes. He had no particular desire to rush back to Gamlen's horrid little shack, to be subject to his uncle's disdain or his mother's constant worry about her eldest child. At least his sister had taken the dog with her. He wasn't sure he would have been able to take its constant whining crying at the loss of its Mistress. He doubted that they'd even miss his presence.

He thought about going and seeing one of his friends about the city, though, the more he thought about it, they always seemed to be his sister's friends more than his own. Still, Merrill might enjoy a visit, and Isabela was always good for a laugh and a pint, but he found that the thought of socialising with them sat ill with him. Maybe he was just in a bad mood. Maybe the thought of being 'Hawke's little brother' knotted his stomach tighter and tighter until the frustration of it made him want to scream.

He wasn't sure when he was consciously aware of turning away from Lowtown, but he found himself moving away from the stone stairways and towards the passenger boats that ferried citizens and visitors between the city proper and the Gallows. There were more than a few Templars standing around, almost all of them recruits, standing around with their helmets off, laughing and talking, moving away and through into the city to visit the markets, maybe, or the Chantry.

_What am I thinking?_ he wondered, and turned over that niggling thought that he had been holding in his mind since he'd left the Blooming Rose. It was a stupid idea. He was just mad at his sister.

Deliberately, he turned away from the boats, and made his way, in more or less a straight line, into Lowtown, back to Gamlen's shack. His mother was sitting by the fire, repairing shirts with a furrowed brow, a small job she did to bring in a little extra coin. She barely raised her eyes from his needle and thread to murmur, "Hello, dear," as he entered. Gamlen wasn't about. Presumably he was busy gambling or drinking away what little coin his schemes brought him, or that mother gave him out of pity.

There were a few notes for his sister on the desk. Two from Isabela, one from Merrill, one from Fenris, a few others from various people around the city. Nothing for him. He scowled and the notes and resisted the childish urge to sweep them all onto the floor. He glanced over at mother, who had her attention firmly fixed on her sewing, ignoring him.

He opened a drawer, retrieving a cloth and oil, and took his sword and retreated to the tiny room he had to share with his sister. He sat, cross-legged, on his bunk, laid the sword in his lap and began the process of carefully cleaning, sharpening and oiling the weapon. It wasn't anything special. It was a solid, well-built weapon that had been purchased at one of the stalls in Hightown. His sister's weapon was a stave passed down from their father, an ancestral weapon that reflected the line of mages in the Hawke family. He thought that it had probably been a surprise that between the Hawke lineage and the Amell blood that he _wasn't_ a mage.

He paused briefly, in the middle of rubbing the whetstone in his hands over a dent in the edge of the sword, and reached under the bed, retrieving a small metal box, unlatching the top and staring at the folded, yellowed pages inside. He hesitated a long moment. He'd read the papers so many times that their contents were committed to memory, but he unfolded them anyway and laid him out on the mattress as he picked up the cloth, beginning to clean and buff the metal of his weapon.

The letters between his father and his Templar friend were necessarily couched in cryptic phrases, no doubt too much at risk of being intercepted by those less sympathetic to escaped mages than Carver's namesake. But there was a genuine affection on display in those scrawled words, a friendship that seemed at odds with what he'd been brought up to think about the Templars. They'd moved constantly while they were little children. The longest place they'd stayed was Lothering, and there they had attended Chantry services regularly, on the ground that a family who avoided the Templars was infinitely more suspicious than a good and pious family who revered the Maker as the Chantry commanded. He remembered Ser Bryant, the head of the Templars there, and his cheerfully friendly attitude towards Carver and the other village boys. Father had never liked him spending too much time hanging around the Templars, and had kept him at home a great deal.

His life, his friends, had always been secondary for what had been important to his father: his sisters. He was the one who had to give up his friends every time they moved, the one who couldn't do anything to draw attention to himself, never allowed to excel. He'd enjoyed the chance to go and join the King's army. For the first time, he'd been able to put the only skill he had to good use: the ability to swing a sword. And no one had looked over his shoulder and asked where his sister was.

He looked down at the sword in his hands, and realised that he'd finished cleaning it at some point, and was now just rubbing the cloth over it pointlessly, more at risk of wiping away all the oil he'd just carefully applied than anything else. He sighed, and set aside the cleaning tools, carefully laid the sword on top of the barrel by the wall, and folded up the letters neatly and tucked them back in the lockbox, returning it to its position under the bed. Then he laid back on his bunk, and stared at the underside of the mattress above him.

He felt restless, discomforted. He never really been without _something_ to do with his time. After the King's Army, there had been the flight to Kirkwall, then the year with the Red Irons, who had always been up to something or other, then the attempt to make enough money to join the expedition to the Deep Roads, and now... now...

Carver twisted around on the lumpy, uncomfortable, mattress. It was this same feeling of being frustrated and without direction that had driven him to the Blooming Rose. While his time there had taken the edge off his dissatisfaction, it was starting to return in full force now. He wanted to hit something, to kick something and scream in its face.

Well, there was one place he could do _that_.

~*~

Carver ducked the swing of a particularly mean-looking bruiser of a man, and kneed him in the stomach. The man doubled over, enough for Isabela to smash him over the head with a ceramic tankard. It shattered satisfyingly, and the man dropped. Isabela crowed in delight, and then yelled a warning, in time for Carver to be hit in the back by a chair. It staggered him, and he turned just in time to see his assailant rearing back for another swing. The man was slowed by drink, and Carver had no problem delivering a sharp punch to the ribs. He was certain he felt something crack, but whether the man did was another matter.

Starting a brawl in the Hanged Man was a little like sending a pack of hungry mabari crazy. Except instead of tossing a bone, you only had to hurl an insult, and suddenly fists and drinks were flying in equal measure. Corff didn't even looked perturbed by the ruckus. He kept the glass bottles out of reach for the times when fights broke out, and was leaning against the wall, cleaning a mug with a dirty rag and looking bored.

Isabela had given him a sultry smile and an arched eyebrow when he'd entered, purring, "Someone looks itchy." She'd propped her head on her hand. "Need some help _scratching_ it?"

The idea had been appealing, he had to admit. But after a brief consideration, he'd said, "It's not that sort of itch."

"Oh," if anything, her grin had broadened, "Well, sweetling, if it's that sort of scratching you're after, then may I recommend Hurley over there? He's six sheets to the wind, and rather oversensitive about his hair."

It hadn't taken long to kick off a brawl after that. Carver hadn't so much fun in weeks.

He had no idea how long it went on, but at some point there was an almighty bang as the door crashed opened, and authoritarian bellowing of, " _Alright! Break up it! BREAK IT UP!_ " as the guard arrived and started separating combatants. Isabela grabbed his wrist, eyes bright and alive, and said,

"Come on! Back door!" 

She pulled him through the drunken sots who had yet to realise that the guard had turned up to end their fun, and were too busy decorating the floor with their teeth and blood, and out into the alley behind the Hanged Man, a place that, if it were possible, smelt _worse_ than the inside of the tavern. Isabela giggled, high-spirited, and they kept running, twisting and turning and passing through at least half a dozen hexes, and were somewhere halfway between Lowtown and the docks when Isabela turned to him and said, mischievously, "Think we lost them?"

Maybe it was the heaving of her bosom in such an eye catching fashion, or the way her skin was flushed with exertion. Whatever was the impetus behind his decision, he hadn't realised that he'd moved to press her against the scratchy stone wall, shadowed by the dimness of evening, until the moment his lips pressed against hers, one hand coming up to tangle in her hair. She certainly didn't seem to object, making appreciative noises, and pulling him closer, her hands roaming across his back.

The feeling didn't last. After only a few moments, he pulled back. Isabela didn't seem offended, only looked at him sympathetically. "Did that help?" she asked, running her fingers through his hair.

"A bit," he admitted.

"I've had men like you on my crews," she said, thoughtfully. The feeling of her nails across his scalp wasn't entirely unpleasant, and their bodies were still pressed flush together. Carver wasn't really up to moving at that precise moment in time. "Antsy. Being cooped up on a ship for weeks on end is why we have shore leave, you know. Don't often see it in a lad on dry land. Feeling your sister's absence, hmm?"

And _that_ was enough to kill any last vestiges of desire that had been swimming in his veins. He pushed away, though not roughly, and stalked away from her a few paces. There was the shifting of cloth and a small sigh as Isabela rearranged her clothing and hair.

"My sister," he said, in a harsh, bitten off tone, "Has nothing to do with me."

Isabela chuckled, lightly. "Of course, sweetling. Which is why you've been prowling around the city like a wounded bear cub for the last few days. Don't think I haven't noticed. I'm an observant girl." She winked at him, and he turned away from her in vague embarrassment, although, really, considering they had been about half an inch away from an act of outraging public decency, he shouldn't have been.

"Maybe you should check out the Chanters board," she suggested, and rolled her shoulders, tilting her head one way then the other. "It'd keep you busy, if nothing else. Worked for she who we shall not mention."

"Maybe," he said, though the thought of going and filling odd-jobs off the board filled him with a vague sense of misery. Was his life going to be nothing more than doing the work no one else wanted to do, running behind after his sister and his worth measured by how well he could swing a sword and nothing else?

Why did it suddenly just not feel like it was _enough_?

Isabela settled a hand on his shoulder. "Look," she said, with a sympathetic smile, "I don't know what's gotten into you at the moment. But if experience has taught me anything, it's that new opportunities are right around the corner. You just have to reach out and grab them before they can run off. And if you don't find any opportunities, you make them for yourself."

She patted his shoulder and then withdrew her hand. "I'm going to see if Corff's managed to clear up the bodily fluids. There was a delightfully fluffy Orlesian mercenary in tonight, and she rather looked like she was planning to be there all night. Will you be back later?"

Carver sighed. "No," he said, "I don't think so. Give your Orlesian friend my regards."

"Will do, sweetling, will do." And then Isabela was gone, leaving Carver alone with the slowly developing chill of the night air.

He made his way back to Gamlen's shack. His uncle was still gone, and his mother was napping by the fireplace. He crept past her and went to his bedroom, his alone until his sister returned. He knew, in some part of him, that if he kept going on like he had the last few days, he'd probably wind up getting killed, either by starting a fight with the wrong person, or getting drunk and stumbling into a gang. He wanted to do _something_ with his life, something that had meaning, something that didn't involve running around in his sister's shadow.

_I'd have to be a Templar for that to happen._

The thought returned to him from earlier that day, but this time there was nothing to distract him from it. Not all Templars were bad, evil monsters. In fact, Carver told himself, he severely doubted that any of them were the boogeymen that father had made them out to be to keep he and his sisters scared away from them. They were respected in Kirkwall, and throughout Thedas.

And, he thought viciously, it would probably give his sister a heart attack to see him dressed in the armour of a Templar. How better to set himself apart from her, his apostate sister, than to join the Templars? He wouldn't turn her in, after all to do so would probably kill his mother in a quite literal sense, but he could make a mark for himself that didn't involve her.

It would be nice to show Aveline up. No discipline indeed. Carver would show her, and his sister, exactly what he was made of. That was the moment when Carver realised he'd made up his mind, and, with the decision that he would head to the Gallows in the morning firmly made, he slept soundly for the first time in days.


	2. Chapter 2

At the boats to the Gallows, he found himself hesitating for a brief moment. He couldn't get the image of his mother out of his head, and what she would say. It was perhaps the only thing that could make him hesitate, and so he stood there on the pier, fighting indecision.

The boatmaster didn't look impressed. "On or off, son," he said, brusquely.

Carver stepped off the pier and onto the boat before he could hesitate any longer. He told himself that if he changed his mind halfway over, he could just browse the stalls in the Gallows and then go home. Nothing was decided yet.

He tried to ignore the way his dreams that night had been filled with thoughts of him clad in the armour of a Templar, swinging a sword, his sister and her friends looking on, impressed beyond speech. It had been a particularly pleasant dream.

While the main Gallows courtyard was open to the public, the affairs of the Templars and Circle of Magi took place beyond locked gates where the average citizen couldn't simply walk into. It was possible to hear voices though, and the sound of clashing swords, and the sense of something _else_. Carver had no idea if anyone else could feel it, but it was the same sort of sensation he'd always gotten whenever father and his sisters had practiced their magic, a sort of metallic taste on the tongue and a prickling of the skin. Everything always felt slightly energised in the Gallows, and the fact that everyone moved with a slightly quicker step made him wonder if they felt it too.

There was a group of recruits crossing the courtyard, shoving each other playfully as they headed towards the boats, whilst some of the more senior Templars stood around the edges, keeping an eye on everything, including the few mages who walked around, crossing from one part of the Gallows to another, or standing by one of the stalls. Carver, overcome by nerves he hadn't felt since he was thirteen and Peaches asked him if he wanted to go and see the hayloft of her parents' barn, gravitated towards one of the weapons stalls and admired a longsword, looking at the Templars on guard out of the corner of his mind, trying to drum up enough courage to go and ask someone where you went to get recruited.

He was starting to think this was a stupid idea. Maybe there was a reason why he was always being overshadowed by his sister. She was the one who had led them out of Lothering, she was the one who'd made the deal with Flemeth to lead them to safety, the one who had been strong and powerful enough for the Red Irons to justify the cost in bribes to get them into the city, the one who had, through sheer determination and force of personality, gathered enough money to finance an expedition to the Deep Roads.

She was the one who had left him behind. What did he owe her?

He put the sword down so suddenly that it rather startled the shopkeep, who had been lazily counting the takings from the day so far. He offered a vague and thin smile of apology, and turned before he could change his mind, and headed for one of the helmeted Templars standing by the walls.

"Excuse me," he said, politely, approaching one, "Could you tell me where to go to join the Templars?"

If he was expecting some expression of surprise, he was sadly disappointed. The Templar seemed slightly bored, as if he had people asking him that all the time. Considering the number of Templars in the city, it probably _did_ happen all the time. "Up the stairs to the left," the Templar said, gesturing, "The office is labelled."

"Thanks," he said, and followed the directions. He had been directed to a narrow corridor, but the first door in that hallway was helpfully labelled 'recruitment' and was left open. Inside was a Templar, an older man without a helmet to hide his face. He was settled behind a desk littered with books and sheets of vellum and paper. He seemed to be scowling at something on the paper he was writing on, making broad strokes with a quill.

Carver took a deep breath, and knocked on the door. The man looked up and smiled, beckoning, "Ah, come in, come in," he said, eyes already returning to the paper, "Just finishing up a little administrative flotsam. You wouldn't think we generated so much, but I believe that it is the Maker's _other_ curse upon Humankind." He chuckled, like this was an old joke.

"Er, yes," Carver said, coming fully inside the office. "I... uh." He cleared his throat, reminded himself that he wasn't some kid, and straightened his shoulder. "I got directed here when I asked about... about joining the Templars."

"Well, it does say _recruitment_ on my door," the Templar said, and waved Carver into the chair across his desk. "Ser Harin, at your service, boy, and you are?"

"Carver," he said, and stopped before giving his last name. Hawke was what everyone called his sister. He didn't want to be his sister's brother. That was why he was here.

"Just Carver?" Harin asked, arching bushy white eyebrows.

"Carver's the bit that matters," he said.

Harin harrumphed and set his quill aside. "You're not a criminal, are you, boy? Because I should warn you, the Templars are not a haven for those on the run. Try seeking sanctuary in a Chantry if you are."

Carver felt his back stiffen before he was even aware of feeling insulted. He tried not to glare at the Templar, but knew he only partly succeeded. "I am _not_ a criminal," he said, tightly. Well, there were, at least, no warrants out for his arrest.

Harin regarded him for a long moment, then nodded. "I have to ask, and you have the look of Lowtown about you. Not that it matters, of course, where you come from. I wouldn't care if you were the lowest dog lord in Darktown, but we are not a haven for the unlawful."

"I understand that, ser," he said.

"So why do you desire to join the Templars, Carver?" Harin asked. "You don't have the look of an idle sort about you. Surely there is much work in the city for a lad of your quality."

"Because..." Carver had concocted a half-baked speech on his way to the Gallows but now, confronted with a simply question, he found that his prepared words fled him, and he shrugged listlessly. "Because I want to do something important. Something that's just... me. I've got something to offer the world. I want to do that."

Harin stroked his beard with one hand. "Vague and ill formed as far as reasons go, but then I remember what it was like to be young. Alright. In three days, the docents will hold an assessment for new recruits." Harin opened a drawer, reached in, and took out a piece of vellum. It was stamped with the wax seal of the Templar order. "Give that to the knights conducting the assessment. They'll know that you've already seen me. Just ask the knights in the courtyard for directions. Good day to you, young Carver."

He waved him off, taking up his quill and bowing his head to his paperwork, proceeding to ignore Carver. Awkwardly, Carver stood and left the office, a little off-balance by how easy that had been. It was only when he was back in the open space of the hallway that he realised that Harin hadn't actually told him what time he would be expected to arrive.

~*~

Three days later, Carver rose before the dawn and, moving slowly and quietly so that he wouldn't wake either Gamlen or mother, he dressed, shaved, picked up his sword and crept from the shack, making for the Gallows while the sky was still dark, the sun barely encroaching on the horizon. The gates to the Gallows were opened at dawn, which was when he walked through them, to find a mostly empty courtyard, though still with omnipresent Templars still standing around the edges. Most of these seemed to be newer recruits, getting the early shift by virtue of their low rank.

He approached the closest to him, showed him the vellum note, and asked where the recruit assessment was taking place. He was surprised by the chuckle that greeted him.

"You're a keen one," the Templar said, "Even the most eager recruits probably won't be out for another half hour."

Carver coughed, slightly embarrassed. "Well, I wasn't exactly told _when_ I needed to turn up."

The Templar laughed again. "That's the point. Either you'll turn up first thing, showing you're able to get up and patient enough to wait all day if need be, or you won't, and you lack the discipline to haul your arse out of bed. You'll make a good impression, if this is how you're starting."

The Templar jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Follow that hallway to the end, then go left. They're setting up in the courtyard you'll find there. Good luck."

"Thanks," Carver said, feeling unaccountably pleased. Maybe this wasn't a completely bad idea, if he was already doing something right.

He followed the directions, heading to the courtyard directed. When he got there, though, it was empty. He was sure he'd followed the correct directions, though, and so he settled onto one of the stone benches to wait. It was nearly an hour later when two others, who introduced themselves as Hardwick and Rolinda, brother and sister, arrived and settled in to wait with him. They had come in from a farm not too far from outside Kirkwall, Rolinda told him.

"We've got a big family, really big." She gestured widely, spreading her arms. "There's not enough room to house us all, and there ain't enough food to feed us all. So we figured we'd leave. Serving the Chantry's better'n spending our lives eking out a living on the land that can't support us all."

"I said she should be a priest," Harkwick said, elbowing his sister in the ribs, "But she's got too foul a mouth for that."

"Shut up!" Rolinda cried, but grinned as she shoved her brother in the shoulder.

Carver imagined having that sort of easy give-and-take with his own sister, and thought it more likely that the Frostbacks would become a favoured summer resort. It made him feel a little uncomfortable, so he was rather relieved as someone else entered, distracting the pair from their back and forth. Slowly, mostly alone, but sometimes in pairs or trios, potential recruits arrived until, at a point where the sun was well into the sky and the air starting to warm up, four Templars arrived. One of them Carver recognised.

The recruits had all been engaged in conversation while they waited, and the appearance of the Templars caused a hush to fall over them. Three of the Templars stood at the end of the courtyard, whilst the fourth looked out over the assembled group with a piercing gaze.

"I am Knight-Captain Cullen," he said, without preamble, "Second in command of the Templars here in Kirkwall. You are all here because you have expressed a desire to join the Templars. I will tell you now that most of you will not be admitted to the ranks of recruits. There is an illusion, perhaps because our numbers are so great in Kirkwall compared to the rest of the Free Marches, that we are somehow easy to gain admittance to, but to think that is, at best, a fallacy.

"We are not a mercenary group. We are not an army who take any capable of lifting a sword. We are not simple mage hunters, in spite of the fact that we are the only ones who can do that. We are _Templars_. We are sworn to the Chantry, to uphold the Chant and ensure that, one day, it will be heard in all corners of the world. We train with sword, with shield, because it is our holy obligation to guard, to march and to fight. This is not a place to come if you only seek to earn quick coin. The guard will take you, or perhaps you can make your fortune as a sell-sword. You will never be rich in our ranks. We take many vows as Templars. Vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. You will be held to these vows, and should you falter, you will be dismissed, and those who leave the order do not last long."

Cullen's eyes swept the assembled potentiates. His voice had silenced them so thoroughly it seemed as if the birds themselves had fallen quiet. "If you are here under some false ideas of what it means to be a Templar, then I suggest you leave now."

More than one or two stood up to leave at that point. Perhaps the part about the lack of riches had convinced them. The part about the religious vows should have put Carver off. He'd never been one for making promises, especially one to do with _chastity_ of all things. But for some reason, he found himself still seated, waiting for Cullen to continue.

The Knight-Captain waited until those who were going to leave had left, roughly a quarter of the group. Then he nodded, looking unsurprised. "Today we will assess your physical condition," he said, "We're not looking for skill, so don't look so worried if you've never picked up a sword. Although I see one or two of you already own one." One of those he looked at as he said that was Carver, and was it his imagination, or did his eyes linger on Carver's presence before he moved on?

"We will begin," he said, and gestured to one of the other Templars, who stepped forward, introduced himself as Docent Vash, and began giving instructions.

The next few hours were as thorough a workout as Carver had ever had. It was all fairly simple at first, running to and fro within a set time limit. One or two were so obviously out of shape that they fell at this first metaphorical hurdle. Then there was practice with dull swords, and though there were a few, including the enthusiastic Rolinda and Hardwick, who had clearly never held swords before, that didn't seem to be the point. The Templars instructed them and they, faster than their fellows, picked up on what was being asked. That was the point, Carver realised, after a time. It wasn't so much of a test of skill, but a test of how well you took instruction.

It passed Carver by, somewhat. The sword drills were almost so simple as to be mindless, but he ran through them anyway, without complaint, until he was forced to pull a swing as Knight-Captain Cullen stepped in front of him without warning. The Knight-Captain's lips quirked as Carver lowered the tip of the practice blade to the ground.

"So you weren't completely away in the Fade," Cullen said, and fixed Carver with a scrutinising look. "You've had training before." Not a question.

"Yes, Knight-Captain," Carver said, carefully.

Cullen tilted his head ever so slightly. "With your sister, in the Red Irons?"

Carver forced his jaw to unclench at the mention of his sister. Of course it would come up. Cullen had met his sister previously, and the entire reason for the Deep Roads expedition was because the Templars had been sniffing around rumours of a mage in the Red Irons. "And before that," Carver said, "With King Cailan's army at Ostagar."

A shadow of something unrecognisable passed over the Knight-Captain's face, and he nodded slowly. "Carry on," he said, and walked away, giving Carver no indication of his thoughts.

Carver just took a deep breath, told himself there was no point worrying about it, and continued to follow the instructions of the Docents. It was well-past midday when an end was called and the applicants, most of them red-faced and breathing hard, lined up as they had been ordered to.

Knight-Captain Cullen addressed them again. He read out a series of names, Carver's coming halfway through. "Those of you whose names I have just called," he said, "Step forward." When they had done so, he nodded. "Congratulations, you have passed this assessment. The rest of you, thank you for your time, and we encourage you to reapply in the future."

There were unhappy noises from those behind him, and then the sound of disconsolate footsteps as they left. Carver's chest felt tight, he felt... proud. Some part of him had expected a 'thanks but no thanks' and a polite request to leave.

"Those of you who remain," Cullen continued, addressing the nine of them who were still there, "You will report to the Gallows to discuss becoming a recruit formally with an existing member of the Order. They will answer any questions you have, and discuss what it means to be a Templar in detail. You may ask them anything, without fear of censure or embarrassment. After that, you may be called to join the ranks of our recruits. Get the time and date from Docent Vash as you leave. Thank you. Dismissed."

Rolinda and Hardwick had both passed through the assessment, and Rolinda turned to him with a loud squeak of happiness as Cullen departed, and shook his arm. "I didn't think I'd get this far! We're going to be Templars." She bounced on the balls of her feet, making... other parts of her bounce.

The mention of a vow of chastity came back him in a rush. He cleared his throat. "We're not through yet," he pointed out.

"Yeah, Ro," Hardwick, folding his arms and grinning at his sister's enthusiasm. "You don't get to wear any shiny armour just yet."

Ro snorted. "Carver," she said, excitedly, "Come and have a drink with us. To celebrate."

Carver looked at Hardwick, who shrugged and grinned. "Sure," he said, and they each collected a slip of paper with the time and date of their appointment written down on it as they left. They led him to a small, out of the way tavern halfway between Hightown and Lowtown. It wasn't big, or very busy, but it was cleaner than the Hanged Man, smelt a lot less like blood and vomit, and the proprietress was a large woman with a cheerful grin and pleasantly ruddy features, who greeted the siblings by name, gave Carver a frank and appraising look and said,

"And who's your friend, and is he single?"

"Margot!" Ro said, with a giggle. "Less of your wicked ways, wench. He's to be a Templar like us."

"Not Templars yet," Carver muttered as Margot shoved three pints in front of them.

Margot laughed. "You always did aim high, girl. Go on. Sit down, I'll bring you a plate."

In the Hanged Man, you didn't touch the food unless you desired to purge everything that had been in your digestive tract for the past three weeks. It was widely speculated that the meat pies were made from the rats that drowned in the ale or got trodden on during brawls. The plate that Margot brought them had cheese and bread, which, whilst being a little gritty, was still freshly baked. There were also pork pies that looked to be made with actual pork, and the three of them dug in, ravenous after a morning's exertions.

"You've been here before, I take it," Carver commented, as he took a piece of cheese. It was smooth and flavourful. Not bad at all.

Ro had her mouth full, so Hardwick answered. "We got to bring the produce into the city for sale for the last few years," he said. "Stumbled on this place after we got lost on our first visit. Margot gave us a map and ale, and we've been back every time we were in the city after that. Cheap, but the food's good and the staff's friendly. It's mostly just Margot and her husband."

"Husband?" Carver gave Margot a teasing look, as she was only at the table next to them, wiping the surface with a damp cloth. "And you were asking me if I were single? You tease, woman."

Margot laughed, and batted at his shoulder with her cloth, heading back behind the bar with dirty mugs from patrons who had just left. They were just after the lunch time rush, it seemed, and Margot was a constant bustle of movement as she moved around the small tavern, tidying up.

"So, you let us tell you our stories," Ro said, as she came to the point where her hunger had clearly been sated and she didn't feel the need to continuously stuff food in her mouth. "What about you? You didn't say why you were there auditioning for the Templars?"

"Audition? Like a bard?" Carver asked, in amusement.

"Good a term as any," Ro said, and waved a hunk of bread at him, "And you're evading the question."

"I'm not really," Carver said, shifting on the bench seat. "Just not got an easy answer for you."

"That doesn't sound promising," Hardwick said. He was resting his chin on his hand, elbow propped on the table. "You should probably be sure what you want to do _before_ you take vows, you know."

"You don't take vows straight away," Ro told her brother, archly, "You go through the recruit training, and then you decide whether to take your vows, though virtually everyone does because if you've made it that far then you're pretty determined to become a Templar."

"You've done your research," Carver said. 

"And you haven't? You just decided one day you were going to be a Templar and turned up at the Gallows?"

"Um," Carver felt pretty damned uncomfortable now, and he picked at the bread in his hand. "Pretty much, yeah."

Ro wrinkled her nose and looked faintly sceptical now. Then she jumped, and glared at her brother. Hardwick returned the look, and Carver pretended that he didn't know that he'd just kicked her under the table.

"Not that there's anything wrong with that," Ro said, as she surreptitiously rubbed her knee.

Carver stared at the bread in his hands.

"Hey, sorry," Hardwick tapped the back of his hand, "We didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, right, Ro?"

"Right," Rolinda said, quickly.

"It's all a bit complicated," Carver said, "I... there's not really one reason, I suppose."

"I suppose it's really none of our business," Hardwick said, and kicked his sister again when she opened her mouth to argue that point. "It's up to you why you want to join the Templars. You don't have to explain yourself to us."

"You do have to explain yourself to the Templars, though," Ro told him. "So you should probably figure out your reasons pretty quick."

"Ro!"

"What? He does!"

Carver took a bite of pork pie and shook his head. The worst thing was that, really, Ro wasn't wrong at all. Why _was_ he doing this?

~*~

He lay awake that night, staring at the underside of an empty bunk, listening to the shuffling sounds of his mother tidying up before she went to bed herself. Gamlen would no doubt stumble in somewhere around dawn, thoroughly soused, but for now he wasn't around, and so Carver was left to his own thoughts without being distracted by his uncle making annoyed noises around the house.

The Templars weren't like the guards. You didn't just turn up at the beginning of your shift with your sword and your armour, do some patrolling and then go home. You gave your life to the Chantry, body and soul. You swore _vows_. You lived with the other Templars, you foreswore any other life. Carver should have been running screaming in the other direction. He'd never wanted that sort of confinement in his life.

So why, he asked himself, determined to be able to give the Templar who would interview him a proper answer, did he want to become a Templar?

His namesake had been a Templar, and the moment that his sister had handed him the letters between Ser Carver and father was the moment that Carver started to think that maybe the Templars weren't the monsters that the family had made them out to be. And then, of course, there were the blood mages, the abominations, the maleficars that did horrible things, like those that had kidnapped the Templar recruits from the Blooming Rose. If there was any clearer evidence that Templars were needed, were essential, then Carver could think of no better argument.

His sister hated the Templars. She had firmly allied her opinions with that of Anders, who was an abomination by whatever definition you cared to use. A demon of vengeance inside a Human, and Carver had seen the results of that merging firsthand. For all of her vaunted skill in magic, she never seemed to believe that mages could be evil, could be bad, and he didn't see her coming up with a way to control the blood mages and maleficar that wasn't the Templars.

Carver couldn't help but think that _that_ was a worthy way to live your life: protecting ordinary people, who had no defence against magic, against the maleficar who would seek to hurt them for no other reason than their hunger for power. He knew not all mages were bad. Father, Bethany, and even Marian weren't bad, but that didn't mean maleficars didn't exist.

Something inside him seemed to settle at that. A Templar had sought to save a decent mage from the Circle, and his father had named him after that man. This was his chance, his opportunity to return the favour by protecting those that couldn't protect themselves, to give back to the Order, even if they never knew the exact reasons behind his desire to join.

For that, he'd be willing to take vows. He could serve something higher than himself. It was all he had wanted when he'd joined the army heading to Ostagar that day. They'd all been willing to give their lives to protect Ferelden, to protect the innocent who couldn't help themselves. Maybe this was why he'd survived, after every member of his unit had fallen around him.

He hadn't thought of that day for years. He didn't like to think about it. He'd had nightmares every night he'd slept as he made his way back from Ostagar to Lothering, knowing that he had to warn his family to get out, to protect them as best he could. He remembered the oncoming rush of Darkspawn, remembered the moment of crushing realisation that the reinforcements that had been promised _weren't coming_ , the realisation of betrayal. Men he'd laughed with, drank with, sparred with, fell on either side of him. He remembered a hurlock coming for him, an axe in his hands and then...

There was a gap in his memory after that point. He didn't know whether he'd been knocked unconscious or whether he'd just blocked out the memory to protect himself. He'd come to, having been dragged off the battlefield, with a few other survivors. An older woman, a mage, claimed she'd healed him, and that they had lost the battle at Ostagar. She was returning to the Circle, she'd told him, along with the other mage to survive. Apparently their Templar escort had fallen. They had stood between the Darkspawn and the mages, buying time for the mages to escape with their lives, and then one of those mages had saved Carver. He owed his life to those unknown Templars.

He owed a lot to the Templars, Carver realised, and this was his chance to repay them.


	3. Chapter 3

He didn't know what his mother thought he did when he left the shack. But he didn't tell her he was going to the Gallows. His interview was scheduled for early afternoon, and Carver found himself feeling nervous, so he spent the morning walking through the bazaars of Lowtown, calming down. Walking off the nerves helped, and in plenty of time he made his way to the Gallows, where he introduced himself and told the senior Templar on duty in the Gallows why he was there.

The Templar just nodded and led him into the Gallows, deeper than he'd been before. He lost track of the turns of the hallways he was directed down, until he arrived at an office much neater than Ser Harin's messy recruitment office. It was empty, but his Templar escort told him to wait, and he was left alone to look around. There was a lack of clutter, a few pieces of vellum and paper stacked neatly to one side, a shelf with a few books, but the most prominent object in the room was a large two-handed sword placed upon the wall which, when he looked closer at the hilt, had a chain of mabari etched in a circle around the pommel. It was a classic bit of Ferelden design.

"Like it?"

Carver nearly leapt a clear foot. He wouldn't have expected someone in plate armour to be able to move quietly but apparently Knight-Captain Cullen was perfectly capable of doing so. "Knight-Captain, I was just..." he waved a hand vaguely, unsure if admitting to looking at something on plain display in someone's office was intrusive or not.

Cullen looked distinctly amused. "Admiring my sword? Well, I don't blame you. It is a very nice sword." He came up next to Carver and looked up at the weapon adorning the wall. "The Templars at the Ferelden Circle receive them from smiths commissioned by the Chantry in Redcliffe. I changed my style of swordcraft after I left, trying so very hard to distance myself from memories I suppose, but I kept this. A reminder of the time when everything went so very desperately wrong. Won't you sit down?"

Carver abruptly remembered that he was there for a reason other than to admire swords, and took the offered chair and watched as the Knight-Captain sat down with no apparent discomfort, considering the heavy armour he wore. He had a moment's indecision about what to do with his hands, grasping at the arms of the chair for a moment before realising they were too short, and he couldn't sit there with his elbows jutting out like a chicken the whole time he was there, and put his hands in his lap. He laced his fingers together at first, then decided that was entirely too feminine a gesture, and just rested his palms on his thighs.

If Cullen noticed his discomfort, he didn't comment on it, just fixed Carver with a thoughtful look. "I've heard about you. I met your sister, of course, but it's not too hard to find information on you either. A member in good standing of the Red Irons mercenary group, or you were, until a few months ago. If you were after a life of swordsmanship, you could have stayed with them."

"The Red Irons wasn't a choice," Carver said, and leant back in the chair. It creaked alarmingly, so he sat bolt upright, not wanting to fall flat on his back at the wrong moment, or even the right one. "My family fled the blight, and the only way to get into Kirkwall was to... take a job."

He wondered if Cullen could read between the lines and hear the 'make the right bribes'. Maybe he could. The Knight-Captain didn't have the look of a fool about him, and Carver had met more than a few of _those_.

"We were contracted for a year."

"You and your sister," Cullen said.

"Yes, ser." Carver flicked a glance over the Knight-Captain's shoulder as he gathered his thoughts. There was a window, more a gap in the stonework, barred with wrought iron that looked out onto part of the Gallows that Carver had never seen before. Beyond the other buildings were the rocks of the mountains, barren and grey. "The Red Irons are thugs for hire for bored nobles. Fun, if you like that sort of thing," and, if he was honest, Carver sort of _had_ , "But there's no honour to be found there. You're muscle."

"Is that what you're looking for?" Cullen asked, folding his hands upon his desk's surface. "Honour? There's the guard for that."

Carver hesitated, not wanting to say it, but there was every chance that the Templars would investigate, or, if not, Aveline would volunteer the information the first chance she got, eager to tear down any chance he had at a life away from his sister. "I applied for the guard," he said, slowly, uncomfortable, "They... rejected me."

"Why?" Cullen asked.

"On the recommendation of a guard, I am told." Carver ground his teeth briefly, aware he was giving away his irritation. "She thought I..." He shouldn't say it. It would probably rob him of his chance but... he wasn't going to get into the Templars by lying. "She thought I lack discipline."

"Really? And what would your answer to that be?"

"Ser?" Carver looked at Cullen, wary of a verbal trap.

Cullen just raised his eyebrows. "Your response to the accusation of being undisciplined. The Templars, you must know, and if you don't I'm telling you now, are far more regimented and disciplined. We aren't simply swordhands. We train our bodies, our minds and our spirits, and it takes more than a sword to oppose a mage. So, would you say you are undisciplined?"

"Undisciplined is maybe the wrong word," Carver said, "She never... actually said that. She said I don't follow orders, that I'm tired of thinking of others before myself. I told her that I was only tired of it not being my choice. I went with the King's army to Ostagar, I was ready to give my life to stop the Darkspawn. That didn't happen. What's happened to my life since then... none of it was my choice. Now, for the first time in my life, I have..." His throat was tightening. He stopped, cleared his throat, determined that he would not sound emotional before this man. "I have a choice, this choice, _my_ choice."

He told Cullen about his realisation of _why_ he wanted to become a Templar. He left out the part about his entire family being mages, of course, but he told Cullen about people needing protecting from maleficar, from blood mages, how he'd seen some terrible things since arriving in Kirkwall, knew that Cullen would realise he had accompanied his sister when she had encountered the blood mages. His sister had spoken with Cullen after all.

He told Cullen about Ostagar, about the realisation that he owed his life to those nameless Templars who had gone to Ostagar, who had saved the mages who saved him. As he spoke of that, Cullen's expression grew distant, and eventually Carver ran out of things to say and, feeling exposed and somewhat embarrassed, lapsed into silence.

"I knew the men who died at Ostagar," Knight-Captain Cullen said, eventually. "They were friends of mine. I... I never knew that their sacrifice saved more than just the mages."

Cullen himself was quiet, and Carver couldn't bring himself to shatter the silence, so he let Cullen thoughtfully trace the knots in the wood of his desk, and looked out at the grey mountains, listened to the sound of voices, sword practice and the distant sounds of the city. Finally, Cullen raised his eyes.

"I asked to conduct your interview myself," he said, "I don't often speak to the new recruits, though I like to do so, every so often, so that they know I'm not some untouchable, unreachable figure. I knew you came from Ferelden, and I was curious about you, after your sister started to make a name for herself in the city. She's gone on some expedition, has she not? To find your family's fortune? You realise that, as a Templar, you would give up your former ties with your family."

"I've always been... the odd one out in my family," Carver said, carefully.

"Yes," Cullen mused, "The only one to bear a sword."

Carver's eyes snapped to Cullen's face, which was utterly impassive. He knew the Templars were suspicious about his sister. Maybe he had only been taken this far into the Templars because they wanted to gather some proof about her, some evidence.

"Templars," Cullen continued, after a moment, "Are not just mage hunters, as I told you and your fellow applicants. Yes, we guard the mages, hunt apostates, but if the priests are soul of the Chantry then we are its body, its hands, its feet. Those who join the Templars must do so with the desire to serve the Maker held firm in their hearts. That is what separates us from the common soldier."

Carver stared at his hands, pressed atop his thighs. "When we fled Lothering, we ran into a Templar and his wife," he said. "My sister was killed and he said a prayer committing her soul to the Maker's keep. I... I could only hope to give the same comfort to another."

It was awkward. How could he profess to a fervent belief he'd never held? But Cullen didn't seem to be disapproving.

"Part of this meeting," he said, "Is the idea that you can ask me questions as well as I ask them of you. So, what do you wish to know?"

Carver took a deep breath, and picked the first thing that came to mind. The one that had been dwelling on him. "The vows," he said, "Specifically of, ah, chastity..."

"Recruits aren't held to that vow, not until they take them formally at the same time they take their arms." Cullen looked a bit embarrassed, blushing ever so slightly. "It's why more than a few of them are known to frequent such," He coughed slightly, "Such establishments as the Blooming Rose in Hightown. Part of becoming a Templar is acquiring the self-discipline to abstain from mortal pleasures."

"But," Carver frowned, "As I said, I met a Templar and his _wife..._ "

"Templars can petition for permission to be released from their vows in the event they wish to wed," Cullen said, "Such petitions are made directly to a senior Chantry official. In Kirkwall, that would be the Grand Cleric. It's the only real exception. The Chant allows for the fact that we are all Human, and that children do not come from the Fade fully formed."

"And, I heard well..." Carver took a deep breath. "There are rumours about ex-Templars. That they don't last long outside the order. That they're addicted to lyrium."

"Not many leave the order," Cullen said, "We take great pains to ensure that those who join the Order are very certain of their commitment. But you are correct in that Templars are given lyrium. And yes, we are addicted. It is the sacrifice we make for our ability to oppose mages, to protect those who do not have our skills. It's a sacrifice we willingly make to fulfil our obligations. And it is one of the reasons why we make _very_ sure that those who take their vows are fully committed."

Cullen leaned forward slightly. "And that starts from now. If you are to join us, then you will leave behind your life before the Templars, join us here in the Gallows, and begin your training. There is no set timetable of when recruits can enter our ranks. We take recruits as they arrive at our door, and they take their vows when they are trained and ready. We do not ask you to forsake all contact with your family, but you will come to understand that your first loyalty is to the Maker and the Chant of Light.

"I will be honest with you, Carver. I am willing to accept you into the ranks of our recruits. You have the physical ability, and your desire to protect the people of Thedas from the threat posed by maleficar is clear. The question is: do you wish to join _us_?"

Carver had the sense of standing atop a very high cliff, with a wide open expanse ahead of him, faintly terrifying, and thrilling at the same time. Words, spoken by an old woman who might be a dragon seemingly a lifetime ago, came back to him in a rush. The need to leap when you have the chance. Her words hadn't been directed at him, but at that moment it seemed like they had been meant for him all along.

"Yes," he said, "I do."

Cullen smiled at him, a warmer expression than he had worn at any point in the interview thus far. "Then come with me," he said, and stood.

And it seemed that was... that. Once the decision was made, waiting further was pointless. Cullen led him out of his office, and into the fortress, down stairs, around and up and Carver was still thoroughly lost by the time he was led into an armoury, where he was introduced to a Templar woman on duty as their 'newest recruit'. She beamed, welcomed him, and started fussing around him with a tape measure. After a few minutes of tutting and muttering, she disappeared into an adjoining room and returned with a set of armour that she laid out on the table, explaining each piece to him and how it fitted on. Then she helped him dress, Cullen standing by silently watching, and showed him how he was to take off and put on the heavy plate by himself.

The weight of it was unfamiliar, pressing down on his shoulders and constricting his movement. Something of his discomfort must have shown, because the woman chuckled, and said he would get used to it.

"Don't worry. It becomes like a second skin," she said. Her name, he would later learn, was Vero. "Of course you'll need extra underthings. Oh, and your assigned bunk." She pulled out a register and added his name to a page, then wrote down the name of one of the barracks and a bunk number, handing him the slip of paper it was written on, which Carver took to mean was where he was to sleep, and disappeared again. This time, Cullen turned to Carver and fixed him with a solemn regard.

"Our armour is everything we are," he said, "We are never seen without it. You are not simply a Templar for the duration of your shift. You are a Templar every moment you are awake and asleep. We don't have 'civilian' clothing. This is who we are. Do not bother to bring clothes back from your home. But any personal effects you wish to retrieve should be brought to the Gallows at once. Your training will begin tomorrow."

Which meant that he had to explain to his mother what had happened, and he had to do it whilst wearing the armour of a Templar. But instead of dread, there was an odd feeling of relief. There was nothing she could do to stop him, nothing she could say or do to make him change his mind. He'd made the choice, he and he alone. It was almost a heady feeling. He could forge his own path from now on.

Vero returned with undershirts, sleepwear, underthings, an extra pair of boots, and more or less laid him down with all the sundry items he would need. Cullen hadn't been joking about not needing clothing. In fact, this was more clothing he'd had since his family had fled from Lothering, and it was much better quality. He rubbed a linen shirt between his thumb and forefinger, and pretended he wasn't admiring the weave. Then Cullen led him, trying not to drop everything en route, to the barracks he'd been assigned, directing him to put his clothing in the footlocker at the base of the small bed. There were a dozen other beds in the barracks, not all of them showing signs of occupancy, though Cullen noted that they would fill up in time.

"There's only one thing I want to know before you go," Cullen said as he made to leave, to let Carver settle and become adjusted to what was, essentially, his new home, and there was a genuine curiosity in his tone. "You applied simply as Carver. Not Carver Hawke. Why?"

Carver clenched his fist, and then consciously relaxed it. "Hawke is my sister," he said, "I don't want to be Hawke's brother all my life."

Cullen nodded, and Carver might have imagined it, but it seemed almost like he approved of the sentiment. "Good day to you, Carver," he said, "I look forward to seeing you one day joining our ranks."

Carver smiled, feeling like his own man for the first time since Ostagar. "As do I, Knight-Captain."

~*~

Gamlen wasn't home when he arrived back, but mother was, and when she saw him, her eyes widened, and she went so pale that for one horrible moment he thought she was about to collapse.

"Carver, what..." Her shock was understandable, he supposed. As far as she was concerned, he'd left the house as normal that morning, no sign that he was up to anything unusual. "What _is_ this?"

"I would have thought it was obvious," he said, and shifted uncomfortably in the heavy weighted armour.

"The Templars?" Mother's voice rose. "You joined the Templars?!"

He set his jaw. "I just came back to get some things."

Apparently mother was too shocked to stop him from walking past her into the bunkbed room that he and his sister had shared. Once inside, he realised there was virtually nothing he could take with him. The only thing he had that wasn't going to be provided for him by the Templars was the small metal lockbox containing his father's letters. He tucked that into the small bag he had previously stashed under the bed, and realised that there was nothing else he wanted. It was rather depressing how his entire life was little more than the sword on his back.

His mother was still standing in the main room when he exited. Gamlen wasn't anywhere to be seen, but that was hardly unusual. She was still, hands clenched into fists.

"Mother," he tried.

"All your father and I went through," she said, not letting him speak. "All we sacrificed, everything we did to keep our children from the Templars."

"To keep _my sisters_ from the Templars," Carver snapped, frustration welling up inside. He wasn't going to let her make him feel guilty about a childhood that wasn't his fault. "It was never about me. I don't have a problem with the Templars. In fact," he stepped closer to her, drew his chin up. "I happen to agree with them."

"Agree-" Mother choked off her own words.

"Yes there are mages like father, like Bethany, mages that wouldn't hurt anyone. But what about the mages that _do_ hurt people, mother? It only takes one maleficar to hurt hundreds, and who is going to stop them except the Templars?"

"The Templars don't make those distinctions," she said to him. "They only see an apostate as dangerous. They would drag your sister to the Circle given half a chance. Your father sacrificed a lot to escape the Kirkwall Circle all those years ago. If he hadn't, you wouldn't have been born."

"And the man who let father go was a Templar. Templars are not bad people, mother. _I'm_ a Templar."

Mother shook her head, and raised her hands to her face, covering her features. Her shoulders shook faintly.

Carver felt wretched, looking at her standing there in clear anguish. He didn't want to hurt her, but he couldn't let her stop him. "Mother." He reached out with hands now covered in gloves, and took her hands away from her face. "Mother, I'm a grown man, this is my decision."

"I already lost Bethany," his stomach twisted as Mother spoke. "It was bad enough when the two of you were in that mercenary group, but hunting down dangerous mages? That's so much worse. I heard about a whole squad of Templars, cut down in the Chantry, and no one knows why. Abominations, they say. What if that had been you?"

Carver realised it would be a very bad idea indeed to tell her that he knew exactly what had happened that night. "I'll be fine, Mother. Mage hunting isn't everything a Templar does."

"What about your sister?" Mother tried, "What will she think?"

"She'll only care whether or not I'll turn her in," Carver said, in disgust. He threw up his hands. "That's all that's ever been important: whether or not the Templars figure out that she's an apostate mage. What about what I want, mother? Am I not allowed to have my own life?"

"Of course you are, darling. That's all we ever wanted for you."

Carver shook his head. "But it wasn't. You wanted a life for Bethany, for Marian. I didn't enter into it. All those times we moved, all that time spent hiding from the Chantry. It was all for them. I just had to accept it."

His mother's eyes flashed briefly in the firelight, and her voice was tight when she spoke. "You had advantages they didn't have. You weren't born with the burden of magic. And what will you do when they ask you to hunt down an apostate? Will you kill them for the crime of just being who they are? What if they ask you to hunt down your sister? Will you kill her? Would you have killed Bethany?"

_That_ was such a painful strike that Carver was actually taken aback for a moment. Apparently Mother realised that it was a step too far as well, as she visibly deflated and dropped her eyes. "I didn't mean that," she said.

She stepped closer. "Please, Carver," she said. "Please reconsider this. You're only a recruit. There's still time."

"No," he said, firmly. "My mind's made up. I'm not going back now."

They were interrupted by the sound of a hand scrabbling at the door, and then the latch being lifted. The door swung open, and for a moment, Carver thought it was Gamlen, but instead his sister, Marian, stepped inside. She carried her staff loosely in one hand, her clothes filthy with dirt and sweat. She had a grey, exhausted look about her, but there was a certain triumph in her expression that faded the moment she saw him. There was immediate panic, as she saw the armour, and then she looked further, and saw who was wearing it. She stopped dead as the door swung shut behind her. For a moment, they just stared at each other.

Carver reminded himself that the whole reason he did this was so that she could never look at him like that again, like he'd purposefully subverted her by doing something she didn't approve of. Her mouth was already thinning, and he knew he was moments away from her recovering her wits enough to start shouting.

"So," he said, "you're back."

Marian opened and closed her mouth, cut off as mother ran over to her daughter. Apparently her eldest's return was the least important thing to happen that day, as mother didn't even hug her, relieved that she was still alive. It was rather peculiar to be the one around whom a situation revolved. A novel experience. He just wished that mother didn't sound so desperately unhappy.

"Oh, thank the Maker," Mother said, pleading, "Please, talk some sense into him."

Like he was a child. Like he wasn't capable of making his own decisions. Like he needed big sister to tell him what to do. A deep, ugly anger stirred in his chest.

Marian's eyes rested on the flaming sword emblazoned upon the breastplate. "Carver, what are you wearing?"

"I've joined the Templar Order." He would have thought that was pretty obvious. "There's no point in trying to talk me out of it. It's done." And, apparently, just in time. If he had waited even a day longer, he was sure she would have found out about it somehow and found some way to stop him.

His sister's eyes narrowed as she raised them to his face. "You realise you're related to an apostate."

Carver wanted to hit her. Or hit _something_. Her selfishness made him want to scream. "See, Mother? I told you she'd only think of herself." Bitterness dripped from his words. She didn't understand. She had always been the favoured one, the one around which everything revolved. Suddenly she wasn't the one making the decisions, and it irked her. She had no idea what _he_ wanted. She'd never tried to understand. "I want to be someone," he told her, "Like father wanted. Like I want. This is _my_ chance."

Marian was shaking her head minutely, like she was trying to deny the reality of what was happening.

"Carver, please! The Order is so dangerous!" He could feel mother trembling under his hand, and he squeezed her arm in what he hoped was a reassuring fashion.

"I'll be fine, mother. You don't need to worry about me." He turned, and glared at his sister. "And _you_ don't need to worry about me turning you in. I know the value of family." Even if she didn't.

He walked away then, and didn't look back. There was nothing left for him in that house anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

While Cullen had indeed told the truth that there was no set recruitment schedule, there were cycles of teaching the new recruits. Those who joined in the middle of a cycle would be assigned to the basic physical training classes until the next cycle started and they would begin formal instruction in the Templar arts. Those who needed more basic training would remain in the basic classes until their instructors deemed them ready to proceed. It quickly became clear that Carver would not be one of those.

In the basic physical classes there were a fair number of recruits who'd barely picked up a sword in their lives. He'd thoroughly demonstrated his ability to wield a sword, and the instructor, Knight-Lieutenant Kalis, had set him to helping teach the newer, less experienced recruits, showing them the right way to hold a sword, how to swing it without ripping their shoulders out of joint, and basic stances and positions. Carver surprised himself by finding he rather enjoyed it. It was simple work, but rewarding when he saw the way that the recruits he helped improved their form. When Kalis clapped him on the shoulder and congratulated him on a job well done, and if he'd be willing to continue to help out in the future.

Carver hadn't been able to agree fast enough.

The Gallows was definitely an adjustment in living conditions. Carver had grown accustomed to having to sleep through the noise of Lowtown, and by contrast the Gallows was near silent. Of course, he shared a barracks with several others, and one of the other recruits, snored like the world was about to end, but that was pretty far removed from the occasional scream or the crashing sounds of a fight gotten out of hand. The beds were firm, the linens clean, washed and new, and the bathing facilities alone would have been enough to convince him to join. Carver wasn't sure how it worked, one of the servants had explained that it had something to do with pipes and kitchen fires, but the result was hot water was pretty easily available. Carver had never been so clean in his life.

In due course, Rolinda and her brother Hardwick arrived, having both been admitted into the ranks of recruits, and Rolinda had thrown her arms around him in a rather embarrassingly enthusiastic hug when she recognised him. She had been assigned to the women's barracks, on the other side of the garrison, but Hardwick had been assigned a bed three down from Carver, and whilst he had been slowly getting to know some of the other recruits, it was nice to have someone who he was familiar with around.

His mother wrote him letters, but he shoved them in his lockbox, buried under winter underthings at the bottom of his private chest, unread. He heard nothing from his sister. Carver had a sneaking suspicion that she might never forgive him. Not that he cared.

It was three weeks after he arrived in the Gallows that the next teaching cycle started and Carver, Rolinda and Hardwick were all permitted to attend the training proper. He wasn't sure what to expect. Maybe 'mages and why they're evil' for the first week or so, but instead they were sent into the Chapel and the Revered Mother assigned to the Gallows handed them each a hardbound copy of the Chant of Light. Opening the book and flipping through the pages revealed it to be not as beautifully illustrated as some of the books Carver had seen in various Chantries over the years, but the paper was thick, and the Chant was written in an elegant hand, with simple line and ink drawings illustrating some of the verses. If Carver had sought to buy such a copy, it would no doubt have been too expensive.

"These are yours," the Revered Mother said, "Bear the words within close to your heart, and you will never falter. Today, you set your feet upon the path that leads to the Maker's side. _Blessed are the peacekeepers, champions of the just._ Let us pray."

There was a clinking of metal as the assembled recruits moved from the stone benches facing the Reverend Mother to kneel before her, clasping their hands together. Carver did the same, even though he couldn't remember the last time he'd done so. Before Lothering, probably. He felt awkward, uncomfortable as the Reverend Mother's voice washed over them, speaking verses from Benedictions to bless them. He'd never been one to recite the Chant, never gone and asked for blessings from the Chantry. He felt a little bit like a fraud. He wondered if there was a level of piety you were supposed to reach to be a proper Templar. He knew he definitely wasn't there at the moment.

But he closed his eyes anyway, and knelt for the prayer and blessings. It reminded him of the various Chantries that he'd gone to throughout his childhood. Father and Mother had decided that a family who lingered on the outskirts of town, shunning all 'normal' activities would be ones who got the attention fastest. So their children were shuffled off to weekly Chantry services like everyone else.

Bethany cried the first time she heard the bit about maleficars. By the time they were teenagers, such things barely evinced a flicker of expression. Carver just ignored her and Marian's inevitable tension that would leave them twitchy for the rest of the day, and let the cadence of the words, so familiar after a while, wash over him, providing him with a brief hour where he wasn't supposed to be scared of anyone finding out the dirty secrets of their family.

The priest said a final prayer blessing their entry into the Maker's service, and they released to go to the first day's training which was almost disappointingly mundane. They were escorted around the Gallows, shown the full extent of the Templar areas, where others of the Order trained or resided. Then they were taken further into the Gallows, where no one but the Circle and Templars went, and were shown the various levels. There were the apprentice dormitories, mostly empty during the middle of the day, which, they were told, had the heaviest Templar presence in the hallways, since the apprentices were most at risk of slipping up and exposing themselves to demonic influence. One of the recruits asked if they would be required to watch the apprentices _inside_ the dorms to which the Templar escorting them, Ser Frederick, gravely answered that the guard was heavier at night, when Mages walked the Fade.

"I remember," he told them, as they stood in an empty dorm, "When a young man, newly brought to the Circle, could not get over the trauma of the realisation of his magic. He had manifested lightning in its raw form, and killed his entire family. The resulting fire also destroyed two neighbouring farms. His nightmares attracted the demons, and he awoke, possessed, in the middle of the night. Though we reacted quickly, he killed two of the apprentices before we stopped him."

Carver felt cold, in spite of the heavy weight of his armour. The original questioner looked slightly ill.

They were shown the rooms given to mages who were past their Harrowing, and the Senior Enchanters levels. Then there was the library, and an endless parade of classrooms, which all started to blend into each other after a while. Some of them were full of apprentice mages, who didn't notice the group of Templar recruits being taken down the hallways, but the mages who walked by them gave them wide eyed looks and picked up their pace.

Ser Frederick assured them that they needn't memorise the layout of the place straight away, but that they would be expected to be familiar with it in a few months time. He finally took them to the topmost level of the Gallows, which was simply one large room with windows that overlooked the whole of Kirkwall. It was a startlingly impressive view, and Carver started to wonder why there were large windows here when there didn't seem to be many on the lower levels. In the centre of the empty room, placed in the middle of a mosaic that depicted the Black City, was a pedestal, unoccupied by anything at that moment.

"This," Ser Frederick said, "Is the Harrowing chamber. How many of you know what the Harrowing is?"

Carver knew that it was the test of mages. He knew that they put demons inside the mages and waited to see if they would fight them off. Father had explained the Harrowing to both his mage daughters, and Bethany had told Carver all about it. He had told them exactly why he wouldn't put them through it.

He didn't say that though, and since the other recruits looked at each other, as if feeling guilty for their lack of knowledge, Carver did his best to imitate an ignorant expression.

"The Harrowing is when an apprentice mage becomes a full mage. It is when they prove to the Circle and the Templars that they can be trusted not to fall victim to a demon's lies and temptations, that they can walk the Fade with impunity." Ser Frederick paused, and raised a hand to stroke his beard absently. It was pure white, as was the rest of his hair. Ser Frederick seemed older than most Templars, though hardly elderly. "All too often, a mage fails this test. And that it where you, as Templars, will be called to action. If a mage succumbs to the demon, and becomes an abomination, you must strike them down without hesitation, for the person who once resided in that body is no more, and all that remains is a demon of most horrendous malevolence. This is but one of our duties."

Ser Frederick ran his fingers across the pedestal. "I have been present for more Harrowings than I can count. Too many times have the mages failed. But better they fail here, in an environment we control, with Templar swords ready, than in the middle of the city, where hundreds might be killed before they are stopped."

Ser Frederick fell silent, and though the recruits glanced at one another, no one seemed willing to interrupt whatever thoughts were going through his head. Finally he blinked, stirring as if coming around from a brief nap, and looked at them. "Are there any questions?"

The recruits all shifted, as if they had come to some group decision not to speak up. The thought irritated Carver, considering that Frederick had spent at least an hour showing them the Gallows. "Ser," he said, and blurted out the first question he could think of. "Why are the windows here so large?"

Ser Frederick smiled, ever so slightly, but it wasn't in amusement. The corners of his eyes failed to crinkle, and he looked more sad than anything. "Because," he said, "If you don't air out the chamber occasionally, the smell of blood and lyrium starts to get quite oppressive."

Carver decided that he wouldn't be so quick to volunteer questions in the future.

~*~

The rest of the day was simple. They were taking back out of the Gallows, and the basic structure of Templars was explained to them, the various weapon specialities and what role those specialities played in a fighting force. The system of ranking was explained, and exactly where they fit into the structure of the Chantry, and their role. A lot of it, Carver already knew from years of familial paranoia over the Templars, but some of it was surprising to him. He had seen Ser Wesley, Aveline's husband, speak a prayer over Bethany's body, but he hadn't realised that Templars could act in the position of priests in the absence of other clergy. They could speak the funereal prayers, or perform blessings.

"But our prayers," Ser Frederick told them, as he paced before them in the main study hall of the Templars, a space full of long tables and benches and bookcases along the walls, "Are not spoken aloud, though we may on occasion be called to do so. We bend our knees in prayer, as do priests, but we also pray in every swing of the sword, every time we don our armour, every time we march. We pray through our actions, not our words."

Carver couldn't quite look at his sword the same way after that. It had an unfamiliar and altogether peculiar weight to it, and tried to work out if that meant he should say a prayer every time he swung it. He might find himself getting very distracted in the middle of fights if that was the case.

At the end of their first day, Rolinda and Hardwick dragged him back to Margot's tavern. Templar recruits weren't confined to the Gallows, free to leave as long as they had no training to attend, but they were expected to comport themselves appropriately at all times. Carver thought of the number of recruits who frequented the Blooming Rose and decided that particular rule was more of a guideline than anything else.

"I mean, I know it's the Templars, and it's the Chantry," Hardwick confessed, over a light ale and a meat pie that had Carver's stomach rumbling and wishing he'd asked for more than cheese and bread. But they weren't exactly merchants, so all they had was a meagre stipend as recruits that would disappear completely if they joined the Order fully, so Carver was trying to save what he could. "But," he continued, "I guess all the prayers took me a bit by surprise."

Ro rolled her eyes and gave her brother's shoulder a good shove. "It's the Chantry, idiot. Not some merc band."

"I know, I know!" Hardwick held his hands up defensively. "I just... it's not like you see Templars going around acting like priests. They act more like priestly bodyguards and mage hunters."

Carver twisted a bit of bread between his fingers. "Too religious for you?" he asked, curious.

"Hardly," Hardwick snorted, and knocked back a good quarter of his ale in one motion. "You should've seen our Ma. A more pious woman you'd have a hard time to find. She was the one who wept with joy when we said we'd join the Templars rather than some merc band or go off as fortune seekers." 

"What about your family?" Ro asked, looking at Carver. She tried to steal a bit of cheese of his plate as she spoke and he scowled at her. She nibbled on it unrepentantly and raised her eyebrows. "They happy about you joining the Templars?"

Carver tried to laugh, but it sounded alien and a bit distant to his ears. "Oh, not really. My family and the Chantry don't... really... get along. My mother thinks it's too dangerous and my sister-" _is an apostate who might just wind up killing us all if we get in her way,_ "isn't religious."

His attempt at cheer must have come over as forced, as Ro and Hardwick exchanged unreadable glances, that sort of shared sibling mentality that Carver vaguely recalled once experiencing with Bethany, those shared eye rolls and grins at dinner.

He pushed the thought aside as quickly as it had come upon him.

"I guess it must be pretty hard," Ro said, after a moment, "You must have felt pretty strongly about joining the Templars if you went against your family to do it."

"I'm not sure I have much of a family anymore." It sounded melodramatic, and Carver almost wanted to cringe as he said it, but it was true regardless. He'd walked out of Gamlen's shack, determined to never look back. What was there for him anymore? Forever being in his sister's shadow, forever the cause of Mother's tears when she looked at his face and saw Bethany there, forever told he was wrong just because he was willing to admit that there were bad mages that needed stopping...

Hardwick nudged his arm, and Carver glanced at him. Hardwick gave him a small smile.

"You've got a new family," he said, and then went red, as if embarrassed by saying it, and industriously bent to eating his meat pie.

But the sentiment, as faintly daft as it was, made Carver feel better somehow.

"Does this mean I get to tease you about girls?" Ro asked, mischievously, breaking the sudden tension in the air. "And threaten any that might sully the virtue of my brother?"

"Oh Maker," Harwick made a warding gesture towards his sister, "I take it back, Carver. Run while you still can. You don't want to be in this family." Ro retaliated by throwing her half-eaten cheese at his head.

Carver laughed, and nearly choked on his bread in the process. Later, it would occur to him that it was the first time he'd laughed like that in a long time.

~*~

One of the surprising facets of a Templar education was that the recruits were taught about magic. Not how to cast magic, of course, that would be silly, but the books in the study hall were copies of a lot of the books in the mage library. They were told that they had to learn all about magic in order to recognise it and, they were gravely informed by Ser Yuli, they would learn more than the mages. They would learn of blood magic, as it was this most dangerous school of magic that the Templars alone could guard against.

Ser Yuli might have been an attractive woman when she was younger. But a sword stroke had bisected her face at some point, and she was missing three fingers on one hand and one on the other. She walked with a permanent limp. The first day she had arrived to instruct the recruits, she had ordered them to take a good long look at her.

"This is what happens to an unprepared Templar when confronted with maleficarum," she told them, roughly, "Now imagine what they could do to others."

She taught them all about the basic schools of magic, and Carver found that the hardest part of the lessons was pretending to have less knowledge than he did. He had years of overheard instruction from his father to his sisters to draw from. Even though once he'd hit his teenage years he'd found excuses to be out of the house when they started practicing, he'd learnt enough that his familiarity with magic would be very suspicious for someone supposedly new to the Templars. Lessons progressed quickly, though, and eventually it got to the point where Carver could claim his knowledge came from books, and after a few weeks, the books they studied contained unfamiliar concepts and magic theory.

He continued to excel in the physical classes, thanks to his prior training, and Knight-Lieutenant Kalis received permission to have him help out as an assistant in those classes where he would have been wasting his time trying to learn the basic technique and building up stamina. He could run the training courses with the more experienced Knights, and did so, along with three other recruits who had come to the Templars with a similar level of battle experience.

It all seemed to be going very well, really, better than Carver might have imagined. Once or twice he thought of the way that Aveline had rejected the idea that he might be able to serve in the Guard, and wondered what she would think of him now. It was, of course, at the point where it all seemed to be so easy that it abruptly became much, much harder.

Six months after he had begun his training, he and his fellow recruits were assembled in one of the training courtyards by Ser Frederick, and instructed to kneel on the ground. Wondering why, briefly, Carver did the others did, and started to fall into a normal prayer position, but Ser Frederick stopped them.

"No," he said, "Like this." And he put both knees upon the ground, and sat back upon his heels. His hands rested loosely on his thighs, his back straight, and he looked expectantly at the recruits.

They all tried to mimic the posture, though Carver found that the heavy armour, which he'd actually been getting used to, seemed to not want to cooperate. It dug uncomfortably into his legs and back, and from the grimaces from the other recruits, it wasn't only him that had the problem.

Ser Frederick looked at them, and grinned broadly at their visible discomfort. "For future lessons," he said, "You will wear loose fitting training clothing, not your full armour. However, in by the time you become full members of the Order, you will be expected to be able to assume this position in full armour without all the cursing you're doing under your breath in the hopes that I can't hear you."

Someone at the back of the group coughed.

Ser Frederick surveyed them all calmly, seemingly quite comfortable and with no intention to let them stand. Carver bit his tongue and tried to look half as sanguine.

"You have heard," Ser Frederick said, eventually, "Of Templar skills, long held knowledge and secrets of our Order, that permit us to resist magic, to control it, contain it, and even dispel it completely. It is what means that only Templars can watch the mages, that we are the only ones who can pursue an escaped maleficar. No one else would stand a chance against them, and it would be a quick and painful death.

"The skills that we will train you in are not easy skills to learn. It has been described as a form of magic, in and of itself. I prefer to think of it simply as acquiring the proper mental framework, and that, combined with the lyrium we take into ourselves, allows us to access natural energies that can repel the fell touch of the Fade."

Ser Frederick surveyed the assembled recruits, who had gone silent, and who were not even shifting around anymore, trying to find a more comfortable way of kneeling. "Much of your training with me over the next few months will be developing that proper mental framework. This is where we lose most of our recruits. Anyone can swing a sword, anyone can learn the Chant, but only the very best may be able to acquire our skills. If you are not firm in your purpose, your belief, you will fail, and you will leave this Order."

While it certainly sounded impressive, there was more than a small part of Carver that couldn't help but feel that developing a 'proper mental framework' couldn't be nearly as difficult as some of the physical skills the Order demanded. Now that the training had already weeded out the recruits who weren't physically capable, or simply weren't willing to put the effort into developing their bodies, it was starting to get tougher. Carver was still ahead of the less experienced recruits, but some of the techniques, specifically designed to defend against someone hurling lightning or fire or rock, were different to anything he'd had to learn before. He'd come up with a few techniques of his own for dealing with magic users in the past, but it had all boiled down to using brute force to overwhelm the mage before they could do any serious damage. His technique, he was told, was 'inelegant'.

So, really, some meditation seemed like the perfect way to relax after intense physical training sessions. No, Carver wasn't concerned at all. In fact, this was probably the area of training he was least worried about.

~*~

Carver couldn't understand what he was doing wrong. He was doing everything Ser Frederick said to do. He sat there, uncomfortable and cramped in that kneeling position, and listened to Ser Frederick's voice as he told them to empty his mind. And, alright, perhaps his mind wasn't empty. He certainly had tried hard enough. But every time he knelt, thoughts would rush up to fill the gap, of his mother, his sister, what he had had for breakfast, his plans to go to Margot's with Hardwick the next day, the new sword technique he'd been learning... 

But he should have shown _some_ improvement, surely.

The most basic skill that Frederick tried to impart to the recruits was the ability to sense magic being cast. This, at least, posed no problem to Carver. He had that same metallic taste in his mouth that his family's magic had always caused, and he didn't even have to try to learn how to sense the shift in the Veil. He hadn't known that was, apparently, what he was feeling. In time, they were told, they would be able to feel the Veil shifting with greater clarity, once they had joined the Order fully. The lyrium, Carver would have to guess.

But otherwise... he failed. And it was a miserable thing.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't summon energy to him the way that Frederick tried to show them. Others managed it. Rolinda squeaked and fell on her backside the first time she'd summoned a spluttering of cleansing light, and Voric nearly knocked an apprentice mage (assigned to help train the Templars as part of punishment duty) over with his enthusiasm. Nothing Carver could do would allow him to summon energy. He had no idea how to do it. He would wave his sword, his arms, and his shield, and he would just feel like some awkward bumbling idiot.

He saw Frederick looking at him with a sad expression after one unsuccessful training session, even as Rolinda tried to console him that he would get it eventually. He had this horrible, sinking feeling that he was on very thin ice. He might be good with a sword, but if he couldn't manage the Templar skills, he would be kicked out. He would have to leave, go back to his family, a failure. His sister would never let him forget it.

He _wouldn't_ let that happen.

He threw himself into his studies as much as possible, to the shock of some of the others. He memorised whole books on magic, read the Chant of Light from front to back, practiced what Frederick had already shown them again and again, and still, nothing changed. If anything, it got worse. After one particularly humiliating training session, when his entire class had managed to disrupt the spell of the mage assisting except for him, who stood there, waving a hand doing nothing to stop the mage from dousing him in ice crystals, Frederick took him aside with a solemn expression on his face.

"I'm trying," he said, tightly, pre-empting anything that Ser Frederick might say in chastisement. "I just... I don't know why it's not working."

Ser Frederick said nothing, and Carver eventually fell into a pained silence, waiting for whatever his teacher might say to him. Dread gnawed at his stomach, and he could feel the blood drain from his face. This was it. The moment that Frederick told him he wasn't good enough for the Templars and he asked him to pack his things and leave. He wouldn't be the first. Others had gone already. Carver was almost surprised that it had taken this long.

He couldn't bear the thought of the look on his sister's face when she found out.

Finally, Frederick spoke. "Get your sword," he said, "And meet myself and Knight-Captain Cullen in the Gallows Courtyard an hour after the midday-meal. You will be accompanying us on Templar duties."

Carver was aware he was gaping, but that hadn't been the sentence he'd been expecting to come out of Frederick's mouth. "I..."

"Is there a problem, recruit?"

Carver didn't want to tempt foul luck into crossing his path, but he _had_ to ask. "Ser, my performance in this training-"

"Is dismal," Frederick said, and Carver felt measurably smaller. Frederick had a kind face, lined with age and hard-won wisdom, but it was an impassive expression he wore at that moment, any avuncular tendencies he had being well hidden. "What do you see when you close your eyes?" he asked.

Carver furrowed his brow, but before he could speak, Frederick continued. 

"Right now, recruit. Close your eyes and tell me what you see. And not what you think I'd like to hear you say, either. Tell me the truth, boy."

Carver clenched his jaw and obligingly shut his eyes, screwing them closed tightly. It didn't take long for an image to swim to the forefront of his mind. "My sister," he said, "laughing at me for thinking I could be a Templar." Maker, it _hurt_ to say that. He felt the bitterness well up in his throat like a sour taste.

Ser Frederick only nodded slowly. "One hour after midday-meal, recruit. Don't forget."


	5. Chapter 5

Carver wasn't able to eat, so he arrived in the courtyard at the designated time with a gnawing feeling in his stomach that he was sure was only partially attributable to nerves. Ser Frederick was standing there silently, only nodding when Carver approached. They were clearly waiting for someone else.

Hardwick was also there, nervously fiddling with the buckles securing his breastplate. Carver raised his eyebrows as he came to a halt, and Hardwick shook his head imperceptibly. He had no more idea why he was there than Carver did.

Carver wasn't expecting to find that they were waiting for Knight-Captain Cullen to arrive, but when the second most senior Templar in Kirkwall strode across the Gallows towards them, and he looked them over in turn before nodding approvingly, it became obvious that he was the fourth member of their group.

"Good," he said, "You're here and prepared." Carver and Hardwick had snapped to attention and bowed in salute to the Knight-Captain, and he waved them into an at-ease stance with one hand. "Since I'm sure Frederick has told you nothing-"

"Not a dickybird," Frederick said, stroking his beard and using the gesture to hide his smile.

Cullen didn't sigh, but it was a near thing. "A mage child has been reported to us. A Templar on patrol in Lowtown saw her spontaneously use magic. Not even a conscious thing, and possibly the first such manifestation on her part. He made enquiries, and the girl's father came forward. He has agreed to hand her over into Templar custody. Ser Frederick thought this would be a good opportunity for some of our recruits to take part in the day-to-day activities of our Order. You, it seems, are they."

He looked between the two of them and raised his eyebrows. "Do either of you have any questions?"

Carver hesitated a very long moment before answering.

"Do we know the girl's a mage for sure? That there wasn't some sort of mistake?" This was the part of the job that Carver had been thinking about from the moment he'd joined the Templars. He knew damned well that there were dangerous mages out there that needed stopping, but his entire childhood had revolved around keeping away from the Order lest they take his sisters away.

Some of his discomfort must have shown on his face, as Ser Cullen put a hand on his shoulder reassuringly.

"We're sure," he said, "A mage child is a danger to themselves and those around them. And without proper training and guidance, they only grow up to be more powerful and more dangerous. Apostates, not knowing the dangers of demons and the Fade, are much more likely to become Maleficars."

"And let us not forget," Ser Frederick added, "That the family of a mage will occasionally kill children cursed with magic. They do not understand, only fear. It's best for the child to be taken to the Circle."

Carver nodded, and dropped his eyes to the floor. It wasn't like every family of apostates had a Circle-trained parent, like his father, to teach them everything they needed to know. You only had to look at that crazy blood mage he'd helped his sister deal with—what had been her name? Tahrone?—to see the damage that could be caused.

He wondered how aware Cullen was of his sister's magic, if that was the reason he'd sought to reassure Carver. The Templars had been sniffing around rumours of a mage in the Red Irons responsible for their year-long string of successful campaigns, and she had been there when they'd helped out Cullen when Wilmod had turned to an abomination. He _had_ to know.

Why it wasn't pursued, and why they'd still accepted Carver into the ranks of recruits was a little puzzling to him. He tried not to think too hard about it.

The house was in Lowtown, in a 'nicer' part of the slums, where people at least aimed for the drains when throwing their sewage out of the windows. The door was half-rotted, and nearly fell off its hinges when Cullen hammered his fist on the door. It creaked open to reveal a man, middle-aged (though Kirkwall's harsh life could have artificially aged him before the years did), with cracked skin and sores at the corners of his mouth. Carver's mouth, not hidden by a helmet as it would have been if he were wearing the armour of a full Templar, thinned with distaste. His family had been relatively fortunate in Lowtown. He and his sister had earned enough coin that they didn't starve, and their indentured servitude at least came with free access to potions and poultices for illness or injury.

So many people weren't as lucky, or as determined.

"'Bout time you got here," the man muttered darkly, as he looked between the four of them. Then he stood back from the door, opening it wide to admit them. "The girl's in here. Best you be hurrying and get that demon child gone before she curses us all."

Cullen had a studiously neutral expression on his face. Carver had learned from experience that it was an expression to be feared more than one of direct distaste. The Knight-Captain could be a difficult man to read at times. "Please take us to her," he said, politely.

The man nodded roughly and led the way into the small shanty house. It was slightly larger than Gamlen's house had been, but it was still a tight fit to get them all inside. He led them through to a room where a fire burnt in a roughly hewn hearth, banishing the chill of Lowtown. It seemed to be a living area, with some rickety wooden stools and a small bedroll on the floor covered with a patchwork blanket. It was small enough to be a child's bed, probably belonging to the girl who sat atop it, playing with a dirty, stained ragdoll. She looked up curiously as they entered, peering up at them through a long, ragged fringe that masked her face.

"Come along, Abigail," the man said, beckoning roughly. "These men are here for you."

The girl was tiny and thin, all sticking out elbows and pale knees. Part of that was probably the fault of the poor food that most struggled to afford in Lowtown. A growing girl needed more than the meagre scraps could provide, and as a mage child, she would always be hungry for extra energy. Carver remembered Bethany nearly eating them out of house and home whenever she'd gone through a growth spurt. She'd stolen his dinner more than once. In fact, she rather had the look of Bethany about her, with long dark hair and bright blue eyes.

Eyes that were looking at the assembled group with growing fear.

"Come along," the man repeated, and grabbed for her wrist. She was too shocked, it seemed to resist, or perhaps she wasn't expecting roughness. She yelped as she was dragged off her bedroll and nearly thrown at Cullen, and the ragdoll went flying from her hands. The Knight-Captain settled his hands on her shoulders and kneeled down before her.

"Abigail," he said, calmly, "My name is Knight-Captain Cullen." He reached down and picked up the ragdoll, and held it out for her to take. The girl snatched it from him, and clutched it to her chest like a talisman. Cullen gave her a kind look. "These men are Templars, like me. Do you know what that means?"

The girl nodded, eyes wide.

"Good. Now I want you to-"

From the main room, there came the sound of a door opening and closing, and a woman's voice calling out, "I couldn't find any yellowroot in the markets, except this stuff they claimed was yellowroot but clearly was nothing of the sort-"

The woman who appeared in the doorway had a well lined face, and patchy, worn clothing that showed the clear marks of being repeatedly repaired. She was rummaging through a basket of food distractedly, and when she realised there were a large number of people in the bedroom, she stopped, eyes wide, staring at the Templars, and then the little girl with Cullen's hands on her shoulders.

Then her eyes zeroed in on her husband.

"You called the Templars?" The mother's voice rose sharply, nearly shrieking. "You called them to take our little girl away?"

Cullen's face deepened into a frown. "Keep a hold of her," he warned, pushing her gently towards Carver as he stood. The girl went without resistance, apparently too much in shock to think of putting up a fight. Carver stared at her for a moment, wondering what he was supposed to do, and then cautiously reached out, resting his fingers on her upper arm. Not enough to restrain her, but he could catch her if she tried to make a run for it. Cullen had stepped forward to deal with the mother's appearance. Ser Frederick looked dismayed, and Carver guessed that an unhappy parent hadn't been in the plan.

"Serah," Cullen said, politely, "I apologise for entering your home without your knowledge. But your daughter has shown signs of magic before witnesses. For her own protection, we must take her into the Circle of Magi."

"You'll do no such thing!" The mother dropped her basket, the food spilling out unnoticed. "She's my daughter! She's not a mage!"

"A Templar assigned to Lowtown witnessed her creating lightning," Cullen said, gently. "I'm sorry, Serah. Rest assured, she will be well cared for in the Circle."

"Well cared for!" The woman made a move as if to walk to her daughter. Ser Frederick subtly moved to block her off. "I know what they say about the Gallows! Mages go in and either don't come out, or they don't come out with their emotions intact. Tranquility. Rape. I've heard it all. You're not taking our daughter to that prison!"

" _Your_ daughter," the father corrected, his lip curling in distaste. "Your family is cursed with magic, not mine. She's the product of _your_ filthy loins."

The girl's mother let out an inarticulate scream of rage, and she lunged for the man that Carver had to conclude wouldn't be her husband for much longer, hands outstretched to claw at his face. Hardwick intercepted her before she could do more than scratch at him, looping an arm about her waist to pull her away. She fought like an angry cat, twisting and clawing at the arms that held her secure.

"Let go of me!" she raged, "You'll not have my little girl, I'll kill you all before you take her away from me!"

"Mummy!" The girl sobbed, and tried to run over to her mother's side. Carver, feeling like the worst sort of dog, tightened his grip on her arm. She looked up at him, eyes wide and glistening with tears. He looked away from her face. Her dark hair was tied in the same sort of plait that Bethany had once favoured, and she had exactly the same sort of rounded chubbiness that he remembered in his sister. Even her eyes were the same colour.

"Serah," Cullen said, firmly, "This is not helping you or your daughter."

Carver felt a rush of something like metal on his tongue, like he'd decided to chew on chain mail. It was a sudden, sharp pang that made his teeth ache, and he reflexively glanced down at the little girl to see a distant expression on her face, and knew that they had to be only a few seconds away from something explosive happening. He remembered when Bethany had nightmares, and how she had occasionally set the blankets smouldering when she hadn't woken up quickly enough. He'd learnt the quickest way to break her out of her spellcasting after one too many times he'd woken up to a bucket of water being thrown on the narrow bed they'd had to share in Eastbrook when they were very little.

The quickest way was also the easiest. Carver pinched the little girl's arm. Hard.

She yelped, more startled than pained, and the sensation of building magic vanished. She stared up at Carver.

"Stop that at once," he told her roughly.

She sniffled and hunched her shoulders. Carver raised his head to see Ser Frederick looking at him. He offered a brief thoughtful nod of approval, and returned his attention to the unfolding drama.

"Ser Frederick, Ser Carver, please take the apprentice outside," Cullen said.

_"No!"_ The mother redoubled her efforts to slip from Hardwick's grasp, even aiming an elbow to his unprotected face. The blow landed, evincing a grunt of pain, but, to his credit, Hardwick didn't let go.

Ser Frederick and Carver quickly headed towards the exit, and the mother's cries grew louder and more distressed.

" _Mummy!_ " The girl was wriggling like a fish, trying to escape. Carver had a brief vision of explaining to Cullen how he'd been unable to keep a hold of an eight year old child. He tightened his hold on the girl's arm and dragged her outside.

As soon as they stepped outside the door, Ser Frederick set his hand on the girl's forehead, and she stiffened after a moment and then went limp. Carver caught her before she fell to the ground, and picked her up, though her doll thudded to the dirt unchecked. That constant, low level humming he'd felt from her was gone, and he looked at Frederick with curiosity.

"You took her magic?" he asked, curiously.

"Drained her mana," Frederick said. "With most mages, it leaves them somewhat disorientated and physically exhausted. Harmless, but in the young, they don't have the physical reserves to carry them through the sudden loss of magical support. What do you feel from her?"

"Nothing," Carver said, honestly. He shifted the weight of the girl in his arms, hopefully arranging her into something that she wouldn't find uncomfortable. She hardly weighed anything, the result, perhaps, of a Lowtown diet. "The... humming isn't there anymore."

Ser Frederick grunted, but said nothing, and they waited in silence for Cullen and Hardwick to emerge from the hovel. It wasn't long. Only a few minutes, and then Cullen came through the door just ahead of Hardwick, who was readjusting his gauntlets and breastplate. The mother's struggling had apparently been enough to dislodge them.

"That could have gone better," Cullen mused, "But, that could also have gone much worse."

"Yes. At least no one drew their sword this time," Ser Frederick said.

Cullen looked at the girl and nodded. "Keep a hold of her," he ordered Carver, and then led the way to the docks so they could return to the Gallows. Hardwick stooped and grabbed the girl's doll, then hesitated and glanced questioningly at Ser Frederick. The old Templar nodded, and Hardwick tucked the doll under the girls arm securely, so that it wouldn't come free whilst Carver carried her. While the girl stirred once or twice on the journey, she didn't wake up fully. Carver kept a hold of her, vaguely terrified of dropping her.

The resemblance to Bethany was almost uncanny while she was asleep.

Senior Enchanter Mirrim was waiting for them in the Gallows courtyard when they arrived. Of course the Circle would have known to prepare for the arrival of a newly discovered mage child. She had hair shot through with grey, scraped into a bun, and a wrathful expression on her face.

"Typical. Bloody typical!" She visibly seethed as she stalked across the courtyard. Carver wondered if it would be undignified to hide behind Cullen. But a mere recruit was apparently beneath her notice. She turned her attention to the Knight-Captain. "Never fails. Send a bunch of Templars to scare and terrorise a poor girl and put the fear of magic and the Maker into her from the get go. I'm sure you enjoy making little girls cry."

Cullen looked distinctly unamused by the Senior Enchanter. He folded his arms and gave Mirrim an impressively stoic regard. "I find no entertainment in upsetting children. I am performing my duty, as all Templars do."

Mirrim scoffed loudly. "I suppose I should be glad that you didn't send that nasty bastard Ser Alrik. Alas, that they don't make Templars tranquil." She whipped her head around, and Carver took a reflexive step back as she glared at him. "You. Give me the girl."

The girl was still groggy and dazed, and didn't react when Carver, after getting a nod of permission from Cullen, transferred the girl to Mirrim's keep. Mirrim tutted in concern and petted the girl's hair. "Drained her dry," she said, scornfully, "Traumatise her why don't you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a new apprentice to settle and explain how she'll never see her family again. If she's lucky, she'll forget them after a few years."

Carver watched them go, his stomach churning uncomfortably. _Lucky_.

Ser Frederick watched her go and leaned towards Cullen conspiratorially. "What a woman," he said, admiringly.

Cullen made an exasperated sound. "Only you, Frederick," he sighed.

"Not that I'd ever do anything about it," Ser Frederick said, "I'm terrified of her."

"As well you should be," Cullen told him, and turned to Hardwick and Carver, who had fallen into resting stances as they waited for their superiors to address them. "You both acquitted yourselves well," he said. "Both of you are to be commended for your quick thinking. You, Hardwick, for grabbing the woman, and you, Carver, for stopping the girl from casting anything. You did very well. You have the afternoon free. Dismissed."

Carver and Hardwick both crossed their arms in salute and bowed, and walked away. It wasn't until they'd entered the Gallows and were out of sight of Cullen and Frederick that Hardwick heaved a massive sigh. 

"Wow," he said, "That was... huh."

"That was hard," Carver said, quietly. "You hear people talking about Templars who take children away and... we just did that."

"Yeah," Hardwick said, and rubbed the back of his neck. "I mean, I know it was important, and we had to do it. But that kid seemed scared."

"She reminded me of my sister," Carver said, before he could stop himself.

Hardwick gave him a sidelong look. "The one who didn't really want you entering the Order?"

"No, I-" Carver licked his lips, and realised he was dangerously close to revealing things which would be a bad idea to reveal. They were walking down the halls towards the mess area. "Listen, I have something to take care of. I'll see you later."

He turned away quickly, and started in the other direction. He heard a brief, "Alright," before he turned the corner and was too far away to hear. His feet carried him, and when they stopped, he was in the Chapel. At this hour of the early afternoon, there was no one around save the Gallows priest, who was engaged in housekeeping. She looked up from refilling incense and smiled at Carver.

"Can I help you, child?" she asked.

"I-" What had he come here to do? Beg forgiveness? From who? The Maker? Had he been seeking simply solace? Carver wasn't sure, and his throat was suddenly dry. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "No. Sorry, I just got turned around."

The Revered Mother's brow furrowed. "You look troubled, child. Are you certain I can provide you no aid?"

"No, thank you, Mother. I'm... I'm sorry to disturb you." He was aware that he was more or less fleeing, but Carver left without waiting to hear her reply, and went back to the barracks without delay, lay down on his bunk, closed his eyes, and tried to quiet the rapid pounding of his heart.

~*~

He had the feeling that the point of a sword was being held somewhere at the back of his neck, and the slightest movement would cause it to swing forward and sever his head. The fact that Carver had no idea when or if this would ever come to pass only served to heighten Carver's anxiety about the matter. Ser Frederick had made it plain that Carver was failing in his attempts to learn the Templar skills, and he'd never before hesitated to dismiss a recruit who wasn't improving. The fact that he hadn't been dismissed from the Gallows was nothing but a source of confusion for him.

His anxiety must have been apparent, especially after too-forceful a swing during practice nearly dislocated the shoulder of a fellow recruit. Poor Arodsti was helped off to see a Healer about the very painful wrenched joint, and Hardwick nudged him in the side.

"Feeling a bit tense, are we?" he asked, with a grin.

Carver didn't feel like grinning back. His mouth thinned, and it took several moments before he realised that he was grinding his teeth. He forced himself to relax, but he could still feel the anxious tension somewhere under his skin, itchy and uncomfortable. After a moment, Hardwick's jovial expression fell.

"Hey, I was just joking," he said, curious, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Carver said, shortly. He inspected the edge of his practice sword. Similar in weight and design to his normal sword, but the edges were battered and dented from repeated blows. The damage he'd caused by colliding with Arodsti's blade was barely noticeable. The Weaponsmaster wouldn't take him too far to task.

"You're a terrible liar, Carver," Hardwick said, rolling his eyes dramatically. "The corner of your eye does this twitching thing. It's a dead giveaway. I hope you weren't planning to become a professional gambler at any point in the near future."

"I might have to," Carver answered glibly, without thinking, and before he could stop himself, added, "Since it's very likely I'll wind up kicked out of the Gallows in the very near future." He clamped his jaw shut, but not before he heard the bitterness in his own voice.

Hardwick stared at him in shock. "What are you talking about?" he demanded.

"Nothing," Carver said, through gritted teeth, and used the excuse of needing to take his practice sword to the Weapons Master as a way to quickly escape. Of course, he had forgotten that Hardwick shared everything he knew with his sister.

Rolinda found him after evening prayers, her eyes bright and lips compressed into a thin, bloodless line. "Is it true?" she hissed, her hand wrapped around his wrist, and eyes darting from one side or the other to see if any of the Knights could hear them. "That you might-"

"Get kicked out?" he said, tiredly, unsure of why she was so agitated about the matter, but without the energy to care. The almost-painful knot in his stomach had been gnawing at him all day, and it was exhausting.

Rolinda sucked her breath in sharply through her teeth, and, firming her resolve, looked him in the eye. "Well? Do you think it's going to happen?"

"Very probably," he said, feeling utterly low even as he spoke the words aloud. He couldn't keep her gaze, and dropped his eyes to where her hand was still clamped around his wrist. As if realising what she was doing, her fingers loosened, but she didn't let go.

"Come on," she said, and tugged at his arm, "Let's get out of here for a while. The Gallows gets oppressive after a while."

More than a few Templar recruits had made mention of how the high walls and chains made them feel as encaged as the mages they were supposed to be guarding, but Carver had never really had a problem with it. It felt secure, enclosed. It felt like a contained world that wasn't impinged on by the outside. Irrationally, he felt like if he walked away from it, they wouldn't let him back in.

Stupid, he told himself. He wasn't a child. They hadn't kicked him out yet. "Fine," he said, ignoring the childish misgivings at the back of his head. "Margot's?"

"Good a place as any. Wouldn't catch me in the Hanged Man." Rolinda snorted, and let go of his wrist to hook her arm around his. They walked that way, arm in arm, to the boats leading to the city proper, and though they didn't speak, Carver couldn't help but draw comfort from her solid, warm presence by his side.

Two Templar recruits walking through the streets was such a common sight in Kirkwall, even as late into the evening as it was, that no one paid them any notice as they walked through the streets. Except, of course, for those that took one look at their armours and conspicuously changed the direction they were walking in. Carver ignored them.

Margot's was mostly empty when they arrived. It wasn't a place where drinking went on, loud and raucous, into the small hours of the morning. People when to Margot's tavern for a quiet drink with friends and without the fear of slipping in a half-dried puddle of bodily fluids. Rolinda planted him at one of the tables near the back and went over to the bar, returning after a few moments with stronger ale than they usually indulged in, the stuff they usually avoided for fear of turning up to duty the next day with a hangover.

"Eat, drink and be merry," Rolinda said, as she plonked the tankards down on the table, some of the ale splashing onto her fingers. "One out of three will do me just fine."

Carver didn't mention the second half of that particular saying; it seemed too much like tempting fate to do so. Instead, he took one of the tankards and drank deeply from it. It was nearly half depleted when he set it back on the table, and Rolinda was looking at him with a sympathetic expression.

"They won't kick you out," she said, thought she sounded unconvinced of her own statement, biting her lip in between sentences. "You're one of the finest swordarms in our recruit groups."

He sighed and stared into the tankard. He resisted the urge to continue drinking in an effort to put off answering her. "Being good with a sword isn't enough, though, is it?"

Rolinda frowned and dropped her eyes. "No," she agreed, softly. "But you're still one of the better recruits. Even the mages seem to like you. Well, they don't run away from you when you appear. Ser Alrik can't say that."

"That's because Ser Alrik is a brute." Even as a recruit, it was easy to see where the lines of opinion were drawn within the Templar ranks. The majority fell in line with their Knight-Commander, treating the mages under their guard with disdain and a brusqueness that could too easily slide into callousness. None would overtly disobey the rules by assaulting a mage, or at least, they would not where they could be found out. On the other side lay the Templars who held to a more protective view of the mages, but they were in the minority, and it was dangerous to openly display such opinions.

No one was quite sure where Knight-Captain Cullen fell in this division. Most were of the opinion that he supported Meredith, since he was her second, and had always backed up her strict views on mages, but beyond coldness and a lack of sympathy, he had never been overtly hostile to those in the Gallows. Carver was convinced that was a miracle, if even half of the rumours about what had happened at the Ferelden circle were true.

"You wouldn't hear an argument from me," Ro said, holding up her hands in mild surrender. Carver didn't fear voicing his true sentiments around her. He'd been close to her and her brother for long enough now that he knew her mind. "The Order needs more Templars like you in its ranks. I don't like the mages staring at me in fear." She shivered, and not from cold.

Carver drained his tankard to give him the courage to say what he had to. "You can't get too attached," he reminded her, "One day you might have to put one of them down. You might be in the Harrowing Chamber, your sword raised, and if you hesitate to land the blow, you'll be signing the death warrants of every Templar in that room."

"You sound calm about that."

"You find it alarming?"

Ro sighed and chewed her lip. After a moment, she shook her head. "No," she said, decisively. "The Chant teaches us our duty, and I wouldn't... I _couldn't_ falter from that, not with lives at stake."

He could see the conviction in her eyes. It was a look he was starting to become familiar with. He kept catching glimpses of it in himself in the mirror. "You'll make a good Templar," he told her.

"I don't want you to leave." Ro swirled her tankard, staring at the dregs briefly before tentatively raising her eyes. "You'd be a loss to the Order."

Carver gave her a lopsided smile. "And you'd miss me too, right?"

"I would," she replied, and he was taken aback at the naked honesty in her voice.

Rolinda reached out, as if to brush his hair back from his face. But she hesitated part way there, and looked like she was about to pull her hand back. Carver moved without thinking, reaching up to catch her fingers in his. She stared at him, wide eyed, her lips parted and faintly glistening from where she'd licked them unthinkingly.

If he'd been thinking rationally, he could probably have come up with some fairly convincing excuses for what he did next. He could have cited his highly probable upcoming dismissal from the Templars, their friendship, or the way her eyes glittered in the muted torchlight, but that was all slightly beyond his drink-addled mind. He tugged on her hand, and she came forward willingly. He only had to turn his head slightly and lean forward, and they were kissing. It was imperfect and drunken, but heady in a way that the alcohol couldn't manage.

Ro pulled back sharply, and sat for a moment, blinking at him. Then she tugged her hand away from his and stood. The bottom fell out of Carver's stomach as she started to walk away from the table. He was an idiot, and he'd just gone and ruined one of the few friendships he had, one of the few things that was his and not his sister's. And of course she would tell Hardwick what would happen, and then her brother would want to kill him and-

A solid iron key dropped onto the table in front of him, and he looked up to see Ro standing over him, looking uncharacteristically nervous. She seemed unable to meet his eyes, instead looking over to the staircase at the back of the bar. "Margot's rooms are fairly cheap," she commented, almost idly, and if he hadn't heard the strain in her voice, he would have thought she was commenting on nothing more important than the weather. "Ten silver for a night. I don't have guard duty in the morning, and neither do you."

That explained the key, with the number "2" painted on it in white. Carver picked it up, weighing it in his hand, weighing up his choice. Then he stood, and held out his other hand to Ro, giving her one last chance to walk away.

She took it with determination, and he led the way upstairs.


	6. Chapter 6

Carver stood before Ser Frederick, and resisted the urge to fidget with the ease granted by many years of military training. Ser Frederick, for his part, sat behind his desk and regarded Carver silently. Carver wasn't exactly sure how long he'd been standing there at attention. He'd been summoned immediately after morning prayers, and Frederick had bade him wait until he'd finished with various bits of vellum and paper that covered his desk. Frederick was one of the senior trainers, and he'd more than once been overheard to lament the amount of busywork the recruits generated in the course of the day. Carver listened to the sounds of Kirkwall and the Gallows, and tried not to think about the passage of time.

Eventually, Frederick set his papers aside, set his quill back in the neck of the inkwell, and leaned back, the wood of his chair creaking with an almost song-like cadence, and just stared at Carver for several long moments. Carver remained at attention, not having been told to stand down.

Finally Frederick stood, and nodded to himself. "Come with me," he ordered, and left his office without waiting to see if Carver followed his orders.

It took Carver's brain a moment to catch up, and he had to hurry to fall into step behind the senior knight. Ser Frederick headed for the stairs and took them down to the ground level. It took Carver a few moments to realise in which direction they were heading. He guessed their destination before they reached it, and his gut twisted as Frederick knocked brusquely at Ser Cullen's door and opened it when the Knight-Captain bade entrance.

Frederick went inside without hesitation. Carver had to take a deep breath and clench his jaw before he could trust himself to go inside without looking as nervous as he felt.

If Ser Frederick's office was covered in paperwork, Cullen's was nearly drowning it. Somehow, Carver had a feeling that Meredith left all of her administrative minutiae to her second, if Cullen's desk were any indication. He wondered how Cullen ever managed to get anything else done.

He realised he was attempting to distract himself from the reality of his situation, and that he should pay attention. He wanted to be completely aware when they formally kicked him out. Carver straightened his spine and stood at stiff attention in front of the Knight-Captain, waiting for the words that would damn him to fall from Ser Frederick's lips.

"Ser Frederick," Cullen greeted politely, though as he raised his head to see who had entered his office, his gaze fell on Carver. His expression was impassive, but he nodded courteously. "Recruit." He turned his head towards Ser Frederick expectantly. He was probably very aware of the reason why Ser Frederick had brought him there. Carver wouldn't be the first or last recruit to be asked to leave.

Only the fact that Carver's legs were locked in his at-attention stance meant that he did not immediately fall over from plain shock at Frederick's next words.

"Ah, Knight-Captain," he said, his tone as warm and avuncular as ever, "I'm glad we caught you. I'll get right to the point. A few days ago, I was going to recommend young Carver here expelled from the recruits ranks, but I have rethought my position." He gave Carver what was probably meant to be a reassuring smile. "I believe he should be entered into seclusion. I believe that doing so will enable him to achieve the necessary peace of mind to join the Templars."

Seclusion? _Him?_

Cullen actually dropped the mug he'd been sipping from, letting it thud the last inch or so to the desktop without checking it. Tea splashed over the rim, soaking the paper underneath it, but Cullen paid it no attention. "You're serious," he said, staring at Frederick.

"I am," Frederick said, and folding his hands placidly before him.

Which meant that Carver's instinctive response of wanting to laugh uncontrollably would be vastly inappropriate. He swallowed against a suddenly and painfully dry throat, and when that didn't work, tried to lick his lips. "I, I don't understand," he admitted, and his voice sounded embarrassingly croaky. "Seclusion? As in, solitary?"

"Exactly so," Frederick said.

Cullen frowned, and pushed his chair back from his desk, standing and coming around to look Frederick in the eye. "Care to share your reasoning with me?"

Carver wanted to hear it as well.

"Young Carver here has not been able to master even the most basic of our Templar skills in his lessons," Frederick said, "Normally, I would suggest he is unsuitable and have him dismissed forthwith. However," and here he turned his head to eye Carver speculatively, "He has an instinctual awareness that I have not before seen in a recruit."

Cullen raised an eyebrow, a silent prompt for Frederick to be more explicit.

"You have no problem sensing magic, do you not?" Frederick asked Carver directly, "You did so with the girl, Abigail."

Carver licked his lips again. "Yes," he said, and was pleased to find that his voice had firmed. "Tastes funny," he added, before he realised what a weird statement that was, and fell silent.

Cullen's mouth twitched slightly. "I hear it like an off-tune note," he said. "But, Frederick, this does not explain why you think Carver should enter into seclusion. As I recall, it's only undertaken by those either in too deep emotional pain to deal with others, or those seeking some spiritual answer to a question. I can't think of it ever being undertaken by a recruit. I've never met anyone who's decided to participate."

"Yes you have," Frederick said, "Before you came here, many years ago, I undertook to enter into seclusion, and seek the answer of whether I should remain within the order of Templars after my wife was murdered by bloodmages. I wanted to know whether I should stay, or whether I should seek death and join her."

Cullen reared back slightly in surprise at that revelation and then shook his head. "My point still stands," he said.

"Carver," Frederick said, "You have a great deal of anger inside you. You came here seeking to make a name for yourself, seeking to distance yourself from your family, your sister. But you have not managed to do so. You are still so very angry at her, at the world. There is something deep inside you holding you back, and I do not think that you will be able to move forward in your training until you confront that anger. But if you do, I think you will be one of the best of us. You have raw talent in its purest form. We should not be so quick to send you away."

Carver felt dizzy, like the world had sharply spun on its axis. He shook his head slightly, trying to reorient himself. "But, Ser Frederick," he said, "Why seclusion?"

"Because in seclusion you have no one to distract you, no one else to blame for your problems. There is only you, and the Chant." Frederick inclined his head gravely. "It is entirely voluntary, of course, but I must say that if you do not do this, if you do not confront this shadow that stains your soul, then I must recommend that you immediately be discharged from the Templar order."

Cullen sighed heavily and turned away, stroking his beard as he paced across his office, lost in thought. After a moment, he turned back. "I would have to clear it with Meredith," he said, "As it's unprecedented for a recruit to undergo seclusion, but she will accept my recommendation."

He turned back to Carver and Frederick, and nodded solemnly. "If you chose to accept this course of action, Recruit Carver, then you have my permission to do so. The choice is entirely yours."

Carver swallowed against the lump in his throat. "Can I have some time to think about it?"

Ser Frederick tilted his chin upwards. "You can have until the end of the day to think about it. If you chose not to, then you leave the Gallows tomorrow morn."

Carver nodded, and bowed in salute, and when Cullen dismissed him, turned and walked out of the door, somehow not walking into it. His mind was reeling. What was he supposed to do?

His feet carried him through the halls without any conscious direction on his part. He nodded in greeting to the recruits and knights who recognised him and greeted him as they passed.

He'd read about seclusion in his initial studies of the Templars. He'd glossed over it in his initial readings, thinking it would never really apply to him, and now wracked his brain trying to remember every single one of those neatly scribed words on the page.

It was an option open to any Templar at any point in their service, he recalled, and he also remembered that it was supposed to be an intensely personal and religious decision. A Templar would decide, for whatever reason, to isolate themselves from their fellows and spend their days in solitary contemplation of the Chant. As it was a self-imposed isolation, there was no set length to it, some spending only a few days alone, others months or even years. Templars did not speak of what happened to them in seclusion. Whatever occurred, it was only for the Templar in question and the Maker to know.

Carver had no idea what Frederick expected him to get out of it. He wanted Carver to confront his anger. That was just irrational. Carver knew he had a lot of anger at his sister, knew that his own anger had been a driving force for joining the Templars in the first place. He had no idea what Frederick expected him to _do_ about it, though. He'd never found a text in the library on 'dealing with those dark emotions no one likes to talk about'.

The fact was simply that if he did not take Frederick's offer and enter into seclusion, then he would be out of the Templars, and he would be forced to go home to Gamlen, his mother and his sister and explain to them that he had failed. He would be forced to watch his sister gloat over his hubris, or, worse, express some sort of false sympathy and then expect him to go back to tagging along after her like her mabari.

He clenched his fists. No way was that going to happen. If seclusion was his only option, then he'd take it. He'd take it and then find some way to convince Frederick that he was fine, that he wasn't angry anymore, and that he just needed more practice at the Templar skills.

Decided, he nodded to himself, and raised his head, becoming aware of his surroundings for the first time.

He was standing in the Gallows chapel, alone, the scent of incense in the air. He glanced around, snorted to himself in vague amusement, and left to go and find Frederick. He didn't need to take the day to think about it. He'd already made his decision.

~*~

There was an entire floor in the Templar wing of the Gallows that was given over to single person cells entirely for the use of any Templars who chose to enter seclusion. It was a feature in any large garrison of Templars, though in the Gallows it hadn't been used for many years. It had taken a day or so for the servants to go through it and ensure that it was habitable, and when Frederick came to walk with him, Meredith came with him.

Carver had seen the Knight-Commander only a few times since he'd joined the Templars, and always from afar. She was a busy woman, and most of her time was spent directly dealing with the Circle of Magi and the nobility. She left the running of the recruits to Cullen's direct authority, and concerned herself more with the ranks of full knights that she commanded. As such, she had never spoken directly to him.

"I admit that I'm here of my own curiosity," she said, as Carver stammered in greeting, saluting hastily. "To see the recruit who has decided to enter seclusion. An unusual action to be sure." And here her eyes slid towards Frederick, and plain amusement showed on her face. "But then Frederick has a fondness for the _unusual_."

"Flatterer," Frederick said dryly, prompting Meredith to utter a deep, throaty laugh.

"Carver, yes?" Meredith said, "You feel this is the correct path?"

Carver contemplated lying for a moment, telling her what he thought she might want to hear, then decided that he had nothing to lose by telling the truth and, more to the point, he wanted to tell the truth. "I will do whatever it takes to become a Templar," he said, and clenched his left hand into a tight fist. "I don't understand what Ser Frederick thinks I will gain from this, but I'm willing to try."

Meredith nodded, thoughtfully, then extended her hand and clasped his arm in a gesture of respect that startled him. "I wish you well," she said, and looked him straight in the eye. The steel he saw there was faintly terrifying, but instead of frightening him, it gave him strength. "Your faith will be tested, but remain strong, and I will be glad to welcome you into our ranks as our brother."

He had never felt prouder.

Frederick walked him to floor of empty cells. All that Carver was permitted to take was a single change of clothes and his copy of the Chant of Light. It felt somehow unnatural not to take anything else to occupy his attention with, and his shoulders itched from the lack of a sword's weight pressing down on them. Frederick said nothing until they reached the final doorway, the entrance to his cell.

"Any last words?" Frederick asked, with no small amount of amusement.

Carver thought about that seriously. He thought of his mother, his sister, of Ro and then realised he had no obligation to justify himself to anyone else. He didn't have to explain. This was his decision, and no one else had any business being involved. He shook his head.

"Then I shall see you soon," Frederick said, and surprised him by bowing. Carver returned the gesture, and then watched as Frederick left, and stayed standing there, outside the cell, until long after Frederick's footsteps had faded away.

Then he sighed, and walked into the cell he would live in for as long as it took to convince himself, and Frederick, that he was worthy of becoming a Templar.

~*~

The cell was simple in the extreme. There was a single bed, with thin but adequate padding to support his body, and a blanket and quilt to provide warmth against the cool of the Gallows. There was a shrine against the opposite wall, the altar doubling as a chest for him to store his few clothes in. He set his copy of the Chant atop its closed lid, before the simple sunburst of the Chantry.

The walls, ceiling and floor were plain, unadorned stone, worn smooth through years of usage, and apart from the door, the only other feature of note was the small window, bars covering it, that was set too high up to allow Carver to see out of, but let in air, light and the sounds of Kirkwall.

He was suddenly and intensely reminded of the fact that the Gallows had once been a prison.

The door wasn't locked, and a room for his ablutions was available down the hallway, but there was nothing else on the entire floor, and no reason for him to leave the cell, which he was expected to remain in except for when dealing with the necessities of hygiene. There was nothing physically keeping him there, of course. He could leave at any time, walk away without anyone thinking any less of him for it, but Carver was determined to give this a serious try, attempt to see what Frederick thought this experience would teach him.

It would have helped if there had been some sort of pamphlet on subject left for him on the bed.

For lack of anything better to do, he pulled off the outer layers on his Templar plate, setting it carefully in the corner of the cell next to a small box which, on inspection, contained cloths, wax and oil for maintenance of his armour. His sword was set aside carefully. He knew he wouldn't need any of them, but it was part of the Templar ethos to always be ready, and it wasn't as if he had any other clothes apart from his smalls and the lightweight shirt and trousers that went underneath the heavy armour.

Presumably, it would also give him something to do if prayer and silent contemplation were insufficient to occupy him.

Then, clad only in the lose shifts that compromised the undermost layers of the Templar uniform, Carver knelt down in front of the shrine, hands resting loosely on his knees and closed his eyes. The sounds of the Gallows seemed to swell around him, every distant voice raised, every rush of the water resounded around his small cell, and he began the Chant of Light from memory, starting with the first line.

_Let all repeat the Chant of Light..._

He got about three quarters of the way through the Canticle of Andraste before his memory failed him, and he opened his eyes groggily to realise that his joints were stiff and while he had become a great deal more accustomed to kneeling in the last several months, he needed to work on his stamina. The light had dimmed outside, and some soft-shoed silent-footed servant had come and placed a simple meal outside his door. It was a very simple meal of cold meat and plain vegetables, but it was filling enough. His first half-day in solitude wasn't too bad, he thought, as he crunched root vegetables between his teeth.

It took about a week and a half for the hallucinations to start.

Carver fell quickly into a routine. He would rise with the morning bells and summons to prayer that could be heard ringing from the Chantry across the water and kneel at the shrine. He wasn't sure why his morning didn't truly feel like it could begin until he'd run through the traditional morning prayers under his breath, but he could just imagine Marian's amusement if she could see him doing so. He would retrieve the small plain porridge that was left outside his door and take his time eating it. After the fourth day, he started longing for some fruit or jam to enliven the taste, but he reminded himself that it wasn't the _point_ to enjoy himself. He was supposed to be coming to some great spiritual revelation, which would presumably be hampered by the presence of enjoyable foodstuffs.

"Vow of poverty, vow of chastity, vow of never enjoying a good desert again," Carver said to himself, as he turned the sticky porridge around in his bowl. He actually rather enjoyed the plainness of the food first thing in the morning, but it did get oppressive after a while.

"It probably wouldn't hurt to miss a few deserts," Bethany told him.

Carver's head snapped up, but, of course, he was alone in the cell. Bethany's voice came from a memory, a recollection of her in their house in Lothering, her prodding his belly with a grin on her face as he batted at her fingers. He sighed, and looked down at the porridge.

"Probably right," he mumbled to his sister's memory, and finished off the bowl.

After breakfast, he exercised. He was proud of his physical prowess; it had been one clear and definitive way he could set himself apart from his sister. He'd like to see Marian lift a greatsword three quarters of her height over her head one handed. His training with the Templars had done much to hone the brute force and basic skills that the army had one drilled into him. He ran through the physical drills needed to keep his limbs and joints supple, his muscles strong.

At first, he had run through these perfunctorily, but he'd disliked the way his mind had tended to wander with only the sound of his breathing and the soft rustling of his clothes as he moved for distraction. He would imagine his mother standing watching him, face shuttered with pain and disapproval, or his sister standing nearby, shaking her head and grinning, saying _'When are you going to give up this nonsense, Carver?'_.

So he'd started to try and make a deliberate attempt to keep his mind on something else while he exercised. As a Templar, he was supposed to memorise the entire Chant of Light, which was no small feat, and while Carver had now read it several times all the way through, recollecting the exact words was difficult. So he played a game with himself: he associated the exercises to stanzas in the Chant. He would go through the motion, and recite the associated stanza in his head, slowing the movement until he'd completed the recitation. Or he would open his copy of the Chant, select a random section, and perform the movements that he'd assigned to it.

Surprisingly, it seemed to be working. Certainly, it was more interesting and greatly preferable to kneeling in one place, hands clasped as the Revered Mother preferred, and muttering the Chant in a monotone. He moved through the sequence that the Templars called _Tempest's Twist_ , supposed to evoke the idea (the 'mental framework' that Frederick so liked to describe) of a storm. The Templar's blade was to cut through the storm clouds, dispersing them, turning the aside the thunderous coils with the flat and severing them with the edge. It was supposed to be accompanied by a wash of mental presence by the Templar performing the movement that would result in magic nearby being dispersed, neutralised, but, as ever, nothing seemed to happen.

Frustration bubbled up through Carver's chest, and he concentrated on the section from Threnodies he'd chosen to accompany the movement. _With Words for heaven and for earth, sea and sky...._

"You're good at that, surprisingly," Bethany said, her voice as clear as a silver bell, as real as if she was sitting next to him.

He drew a breath, and focussed on the edge of his sword as it cut through the air. _At last did the Maker from the living world make Men._ It was silly to imagine what Bethany might have thought of his choices in life. She was dead; it wasn't like he had to worry about pleasing her.

Bethany laughed. "I bet all the girls get hot and bothered when they see those muscles bulging as you exercise. You can't fool me, brother."

_Immutable as the substance of the earth..._ Carver shifted his body weight, moving with the sword as if it were an extension of his body. Once, his arms had trembled with the effort of contorting his body and keeping a firm grip on his weapon. He was better than that, now, but he knew he'd have to put in more practice whilst wearing full armour. The additional weight made movements more difficult. _With souls made of dream and idea, hope and fear, endless possibilities._

A hand settled onto his shoulder, delicate and fine boned and as familiar to him as his own. "Are you going to stand there and ignore me _all_ day?" Bethany asked, in exasperated amusement.

Carver dropped his sword so suddenly it clanged as it hit the floor, and the only reason the shrine didn't topple over when he knocked into it in his haste to back away was because of the sheer weight of the wood it was made from. Bethany watched him flail and stagger away and looked like she was trying not to laugh.

She looked just like he remembered, only just grown out of that too-awkward gangliness that had plagued both of them as teenagers. She was wearing the same outfit that she'd had on the day she died, and that Carver was used to seeing in his dreams soaked through with blood, barely hiding the pulped flesh that the Ogre had left behind. But her dress was clean, and her body was whole, and she _could not be there_.

"What is this?" he demanded, horrified and enthralled all at once. "What trickery can conjure a memory?"

Bethany tilted her head and smirked at him. "Dear brother, the only one in this cell is you."

Hallucations. He should have known. He'd been warned, by Frederick, that the mind could play tricks after long enough staring at the same four walls and not seeing another living soul. It was probably a sign he should leave, Carver realised, that he should take his sword and his armour and head back into the waiting arms of the Order...

Who would send him away, having failed in his task. The very thought of it burned in Carver's stomach, and he hadn't even realised he'd been edging towards the door until he made the conscious decision not to go through it. He'd been determined to stick out this solitary exercise to the end, to prove that he could be a Templar, that he _was_ a Templar, and imaging the expression on his sister's face when he was sent from the Order in disgrace was more than enough to turn him away from leaving.

"Begone, waking dream," he told his hallucination roughly. He turned away from her, closing his eyes so that he wouldn't be forced to look at her. "Leave me in peace."

There was no sound behind him, and when he finally plucked up the courage to reopen his eyes a few minutes later, he was once again alone in the cell. Carver took a deep breath and picked up his sword, but realised, after a few half-hearted swings, that he wasn't anywhere near the right frame of mind to continue exercising properly. Instead, he lay on the bed, stared at the ceiling, and tried desperately to think of anything except Bethany until the sky started to dim outside, and he caught the sound of the soft-footed Tranquil that brought him his food leaving it outside the door.

Bethany did not return that night.


	7. Chapter 7

The next day he was still too unsettled to practice his swordcraft, so after he awoke, prayed and ate, he settled down cross-legged atop the thin bed with his armour and the waxes and oils needed to care for it, and started going over the armour piece by piece. It wasn't the finest craftsmanship; recruit armour was not perfectly tailored to each individual. The armour he wore had been forged to a general size for recruits years ago, and the differences in fitting were padded out with underlayers and leather. If he did indeed take his vows and join the Order as a Knight, he would be given custom armour that fitted perfectly, and that would he would be expected, barring damage or destruction in the course of his duties, to wear every waking hour for the rest of his life.

The breastplate, with its flaming-sword ornamentation, was the single largest piece of the armor, and also the easiest to polish. He'd grown up being taught to fear the emblem of the Templars, being taught to watch for it, and then to make sure that they didn't come anywhere near his sisters. He'd been taught that he had to lie to anyone wearing it, and though he'd known the reason why from a young age, he'd never enjoyed fooling the Templars. Maybe that was why he'd joined the army; there were no awkward questions there.

Bethany hadn't understood why he'd felt the need. He'd never bothered to explain his reasoning to her. Marian's derisive look of betrayal when he'd announced his intention to leave had been more than enough reason not to try.

"Are you not going to try to practice magic today?"

He jumped and nearly dropped the armor. It was only due to some hurried scrabbling that he kept the breastplate on his lap. He glared balefully at the hallucination that had returned to torment him, standing by the window and looking at him curiously.

"What are you talking about?" he demanded, before abruptly realising that engaging one's own imagination as if it had a mind of its own wasn't healthy, and dropped his eyes to the plate metal.

Bethany didn't seem bothered by his attitude. "Yesterday, with the sword. Weren't you trying to do magic?"

Carver sneered at her faintly. "I'm not a mage," he said, "It was _prayer._ "

"Oh," Bethany said. "Prayer. I see."

Bethany ran her fingers along the edge of the window, but she didn't stir up any of the dust that lingered there. "I never really pinned you as the religious type," she said, and then turned and gave him a little smile that seemed utterly mischievous. "But then you did spend all that time in the Chantries. They were the one constant in our childhood, weren't they? No matter where we were dragged to by mother and father, there was always a Chantry, always a Revered Mother who would recite the Chant, which never changed." 

Now that Carver thought about it, that had always been the case. The villages changed, the friends were abandoned and left behind, he'd lost more than one book or toy because it had been forgotten in the hurry to leave, but the Chantry had always been there, the centre of whatever community they insinuated themselves into. Carver settled the oil cloth over the breastplate, absently resuming working the oil into every crevasse of the metal.

"Father used to worry about how much time I spent in the Chantry," he said. "He forebade me to hang around the Templars." 

"And you ignored him. In... Westheath, was it? You were always sneaking off to watch the Templars practicing their swordplay. I was convinced you had a crush on... what was his name? Ser Royand?" 

Carver felt his face become hot, and he furiously stared at the sunburst over the shrine. Bethany, noticing his embarrassment, laughed delightedly. 

"Maybe just a bit of a crush, hmm, brother?" 

Carver remembered Ser Royand surprisingly keenly. He'd been a tall, handsome man, and his armour had gleamed in the sunlight with what had seemed to Carver's immature eyes to be an inner glow. His skin tanned thoroughly from a lifetime in the sunshine of a rural community, his head not shrouded in Templar's helmet, he'd been the senior of the three Templars assigned to Westheath's tiny Chantry, and a prominent figure in the small farming community. He'd always had a smile and ready joviality on show for Carver whenever the boy would turn up at the Chantry to watch the Templars training, and indulged him by showing him the correct way to hold a sword.

They'd spent eight months at Westheath, and Carver had later wondered if the reason they'd left was because Carver had been spending far too much time around Ser Royand, hanging on his every word.

"I won't be mocked by a figment of my imagination," Carver said, and made extra effort to make the breastplate shine. No one would see it but him, but it was a point of pride that it be perfect, not just 'good enough'.

Bethany smirked at him, and settled down onto the bed next to him, her legs folded and hands demurely kept in her lap. "I mocked you constantly. It never stopped you from doing what you wanted to, especially if that was mooning over Ser Royand."

If she'd been real, if she'd been present, he would have pulled her hair and told her to stop winding him up. Bethany _had_ teased him mercilessly during their time in Westheath, but never where their parents or Marian could hear. He'd never thanked her for that. She probably would have pulled a face and denied doing anything nice for him anyway.

"It was easier to believe than the idea you'd join the ranks of the most devout Chantry followers," Bethany continued, "Have you found faith here, in the Gallows?"

He hesitated, oil cloth poised in mid-air. "I think," he said, very slowly, "That I always had it. It was just never the most important thing."

There was no response, and when he turned to look at his hallucination, she was gone. Feeling twitchy and uncertain, he set the breastplate aside and began work on the pauldrons.

~*~

"You should practice that magic of yours. You'll never get good at it if you don't."

Carver was so used to his hallucinations now that he didn't even pause in his eating. She had visited him often over many days; so many that he'd lost track. She would talk about something that had happened in their past, mused over its meaning, and then vanished. She would return the next day and talk about some other memory, some other shared experience from their childhood. At first he had angrily tried to shoo her away, irked that his own mind was betraying him, but after a while he started to voice the memories himself, as they came to mind. It was like sitting and talking with Bethany, as if she hadn't died.

Every day, it got harder and harder not to see her bloodied corpse every time he closed his eyes. A tight feeling was building in his chest, as if something inside was about to break.

"It's calling praying and exercising," he retorted, "Not magic."

"Felt like you were trying to do magic." Bethany frowned slightly.

Carver sighed, and nibbled on the edge of a parsnip. They were just out of season, and it tasted stringy and bland. "The Templar exercises," he paused, trying to frame his thoughts. "Frederick says it's all proper mental framework. It's manipulating the Veil, but not the same way mages do. Or... that's what they tell me. I do everything that Frederick taught but I just don't seem to be able to get it."

"You weren't a slow learner," Bethany said, chidingly. She was looking over the shrine with curious interest. "And you were always interested in magic."

He frowned, and set the plate back on the tray, his appetite lost. He would leave the tray outside the door, and someone would take it away. "I couldn't help but learn about it. Father taught you and Marian, and we lived in very small houses."

Bethany thought for a moment, frowning at one of the shrine candles as if it contained all the answers of the world. "You thought you could have protected me if you were a mage."

"What- I-" His voice failed him, and he gaped at her like some oversized fish. "I don't-"

Bethany continued, unrelenting, in a sing song tone that seemed to mock him. "That was what Marian did, after all. She was the big sister, the one who protected everyone else. Overdeveloped sense of martyrdom, you used to call it." She gave him a look of exasperation. "You might have been overstating a _little_."

"You always took her side," Carver spat out, accusingly. "Bloody mages always sticking together."

"I agreed with her because you were being a mabari's arse about it all," Bethany retorted, and looked more amused than anything. "What's more, you knew it."

He lapsed into sullen silence. He set the tray outside the door for a servant to collect and went and sat on his bed, pulling the blankets over his knees. It was growing dim outside, and though it wasn't very late, one had to go to bed early in order to get up with the dawn bells. But Bethany hadn't disappeared as she so often did when he was preparing for bed, instead she was still watching him, which Carver took to mean that his mind had more things to bother him with.

He was just starting to drowse when she spoke again, and her words lanced through to his very core. "You always thought you should have been able to do magic." 

"Shut up," he told her, and squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his clasped hands to his forehead. There was an ache building behind his eyes. 

"We would lie there in bed, late at night," Bethany continued, ignoring him. But she was his hallucination. He was the only one tormenting himself here. "And I would cup my hands together and show you the sparks of lightning or flame that I'd learnt to conjure. You would try so very hard to copy me, and you couldn't understand why it didn't work. And I would tell you not to worry, that we were twins, and if I could do it, you could as well." 

"Shut up!" 

"But it never happened. You weren't a mage. And you started hating me. I would look at you with such hurt when you stopped talking to me. When you started ignoring me or shoving me around, or pulling my hair. I would look at you and wonder what had happened to my twin, my best friend, what demon had stolen him and left this horrid little boy in his place to torment me." 

Had she really thought that? Or was that just what his mind had decided that she thought when she looked at him. He remembered her wounded expression the first time he made a remark about 'stupid, blighted magic' and how she had stared at him dumbly before walking away very quietly. He'd felt horrible, then reminded himself that it was her fault that they couldn't stay anywhere for very long. Her and Marian's. 

"Father tried to talk to you, but you screamed at him when he tried and ran away. You ran to the Chantry and hid in the pews and listened to the choir practicing. You fell asleep there, and the Revered Mother found you. She called for Father, and when he arrived he looked terrified at the idea that you'd given us all away in a fit of childish rage. You hadn't, but if they'd asked you at that moment, you would have told them." 

Carver shook his head slowly. "I wouldn't have betrayed or. Or Marian. I couldn't. I wouldn't."

"You know that's not true," Bethany's expression was kind, but unyielding. "There were times when you thought about going to the Chantry, about telling them everything you knew. You just wanted to stop running. You wanted to be a normal boy with a normal family, not the least impressive child, always hiding in one sister's shadow and always having to put the other before yourself."

"Shut _up_!" he barked, and turned away from her sharply, jerking the thin blankets over his shoulders.

He felt Bethany settle on the covers, even though there was no way she should have been able to disturb them. After a moment, her hand came to rest on his head, gently touching his hair. "There's such anger and guilt tied up in these memories. You feel like you did something wrong."

He shoved himself back into a sitting position as violently as he had lain down, dislodging her hand in the process. "Leave me alone," he said. "I'd rather go crazy quietly lock in here than anything."

"Leave if you want," Bethany said, "You can. Why don't you?"

"Can't," he ground out. "I have to do this. I have to..."

"Prove yourself?" Bethany's brow furrowed gently, in apparently genuine confusion. "Why would you need to do that?"

Something tight sat in his stomach, something coiled and unpleasant and Carver found that he shied away from thinking about why her words were making him more and more agitated and anxious. "My sister..." his voice faltered. The longer he tried to cling to the idea of Marian's expression at his failure, the more ephemeral it seemed to become. The image slipped from his mental grasp, more often replaced by that awful moment on the mountains near Lothering, of Bethany's expression as the Ogre reached for her and-

"I just do," he said, sharply, and drew up his legs to keep as much distance between him and Bethany as he could.

Bethany leaned forward, and though he at first tried to lean away, she didn't falter. Her fingers brushed his cheek, and a memory floated up to the surface of his mind. It was as if he were there, as if it had only happened moments ago. He could smell the wood smoke from a dying fire, smell the manure spread over the farms outside. It was so clear.

It had been when they were small, still in Dawnrise, and in the middle of the night, Bethany had awoken with nightmares, and, worse was terrified that the nightmares would lead to something worse. He had crept into her bed and hugged her tightly as she tried not to cry and wake their sister and parents. He hadn't needed to hear her sobs to know she was upset. He always knew when she was unhappy even when she tried to hide it.

_Don't worry_ , he'd whispered. _I'll always protect you from the bad things._

She'd believed him. She always believed him. 

"It was my fault," he said, the words dragged from him painfully. They fell from his lips like thorns, a nearly physically agonising thing to say. "I was supposed to die, not her. She was my twin. I was her brother, her protector..." His voice failed him. 

"My Templar," Bethany finished softly. 

Carver buried his face in his hands. "Who are you to torment me like this?" he asked, his voice broken, his shoulders shaking with the effort to suppress the sobs that wanted to escape.

Bethany stroked his hair gently. "A spirit of remembrance," she said, sadly, "You bear such burden of memories, Carver. Bethany loves you."

"Bethany's dead." He raised his head, and looked at the thing that wasn't his sister, that _could not_ be his sister. He should be afraid, he knew, he should be running to summon another Templar or trying to send it back to the Fade himself. "I want her back."

"The Veil is thin," Bethany told him, "But not _that_ thin."

He was weeping now. His vision was blurred, and tears fell freely. "I'm sorry," he said, and his voice cracked on the words. "I'm so sorry I didn't save you."

Bethany leaned forward and kissed his forehead. She smelled like wildflowers and lyrium. "I forgive you," she whispered, and cradled him against her when he finally broke down and started sobbing in earnest.

~*~

He donned his armour again for the first time in weeks the next morning, ignoring the breakfast repast in favour of settling the plate over his body, fastening buckles that had remained supple thanks to careful care, and feeling the weight of the armour pressing down on his shoulders in a way that was familiar and comforting rather than oppressive.

"You're leaving?" Bethany asked, curiously.

He knew she wasn't Bethany, of course. And now he knew that she was also not the product of a mind driven in on itself by solitude and anger. She was a spirit of remembrance, no doubt tempted across the Veil by his constant nagging at his own fears, his anger, his endless replaying of his own memories of his family and failures. He'd known the Veil was thin in Kirkwall, and he'd known that non-mages could be possessed as much as mages could be, thanks to both his father's knowledge and the Templar's training, but it had all seemed so academic. It didn't seem like something that could happen to him.

He'd been fortunate. The spirit had been curious, not malicious, in taking Bethany's form, and clothing itself in his memories of her. It hadn't tried to possess him directly, but the fact that he had drawn it across from the Fade was undeniable.

"I've realised something," he said, as he slowly donned the armour piece by piece, making sure each was perfectly placed before continuing. He intended to look his most presentable when he returned to the Gallows proper.

"And what's that?"

He glanced at her. She was waiting for his explanation with a sort of fondly amused patience, like she already knew the answer but wanted him to say it out loud. "I joined the Templars for the wrong reasons."

Bethany tilted her head, brow furrowed curiously, and waited for him to go on.

"I wanted to prove that I was better than my sister, that I didn't want to live in her shadow. I was so obsessed with what she thought of me that I didn't realise that I was making it worse for myself. As long as I was angry at her, I would never be able to leave her behind. But, I realise now that even if my reason for joining the Templars was a bad one, I have a reason to stay. I have a choice to make. I can accept that I will always live in my sister's shadow, or I accept that I have an opportunity to do something she can never do."

Carver turned to face Bethany fully, and gave her a sad smile. "To protect the mages, the way I should have protected Bethany."

Bethany stood from the bed and came to stand close to him. He could feel the faint tingling sensation, the same metallic taste, that he had come to associate with the Fade. He wondered why he'd never been able to feel it before. "So you're going to forget why you went to the Gallows? Why you wanted to become a Templar?"

"Yes," he said, "Because it's not the reason why I'm staying. And I _will_ be staying." There was no other choice. Some conviction had taken root beneath Carver's breastplate. They wouldn't be kicking him out. He _knew_ it.

"I could stay with you," Bethany said, "You could remember Bethany forever, as if she were here."

The spirit had been kind, Carver knew, and while the offer was tempting, it was an easy decision. "No," he said, "Bethany will always be a part of me, but she will only be a memory, just as you are."

The spirit seemed not at all dismayed by his refusal. "Be well, Carver," she said, and smiled at him. He decided that it was that expression on Bethany's face, that expression of affection and warmth, that he would try and imprint on his soul. When he thought of his sister, he would think of her smile, and not her crushed body lying in the dirt somewhere in Ferelden.

He reached out, indulging himself, and took her hand in his. He kissed her fingers, feeling the flesh warm and alive in a way he knew it could not possibly be. "Be well, sister," he said, and turned away.

He didn't need to glance back as he left the cell to know that she was already gone.


	8. Chapter 8

No one was expecting him to appear in the common areas, but then his confinement had not been of any set duration, and he'd had no way of informing anyone of his intentions to return to the main population of the Gallows. He also realised, as he walked into the dining hall, and the conversation level dipped to nothing before starting up again in a discordant chorus of whispering, that he had failed to inform his fellows what he was doing. He wondered what Cullen and Meredith had let be known, and found that, somehow, the presence of so many people, all looking at him and speaking at once seemed to push in at him from all sides, leaving him uneasy.

He pushed aside his own discomfort, and strode to the table where the senior Knights and Docents were seated eating breakfast. The first meal of the day was an informal affair, with Templars and recruits drifting in and out throughout the morning as their shifts allowed them, but on that day, both Meredith and Cullen were present, both regarding him with no small amount of curiosity.

"Templar recruit Carver reporting, sir," he said, saluting and standing at attention as he came close enough to the table.

Meredith regarded him for a long thoughtful moment before she gestured for him to stand at ease. Carver pretended that most of the room wasn't staring at him. "Well?" she prompted.

Templars didn't discuss what happened to them in seclusion. Carver was grateful for that tradition. "I know where my path lies," he said, simply.

"And that is?"

He looked her in the eye, greatly daring, but needing her to be certain of his conviction. "As a Knight of the Templar Order."

Meredith raised her eyebrows and her mouth twitched into something that might have been a smile. "Go and speak to Ser Frederick," she said, and gestured for his dismissal.

Carver saluted again, and made his way past the long tables, out of the main hall. He passed Hardwick and Rolinda on the way. Rolinda tried to speak, but he shook his head at her minutely. _Later._

She subsided, words dying unvoiced in her throat.

Ser Frederick was in his office, and the surprise on his face at seeing Carver was entertaining to behold. He said nothing for long moments after Carver knocked and announced himself, entering to stand at rest in front of his desk. Ser Frederick got up from his chair, and came around to stand close to look Carver in the eye. It was harder to meet his gaze than it was to meet Meredith's; Frederick had put more faith in him than anyone Carver had ever known.

"I know that look," Frederick said, eventually. "What have you come to tell me?"

Carver took a deep breath, and found that he didn't need to steel himself to say the words. They were true, not in a prophetic sense, but in that he _knew_ there could be no alternative. "I will be a Templar," he said, with heartfelt certainty. "Not to spite my sister. Not to prove myself to anyone else. But because that is what I am going to become."

Frederick nodded, accepting his pledge as just that. "Come along," he said, and led Carver from the room, heading in the direction of the training grounds.

Carver wasn't unaware of the looks that followed them as they passed recruits and knights alike in the hallways. He knew that none of them would dare follow and try to watch, for risk of Frederick's wrath, but he shoved aside the self-conscious that arose anyway.

The yard was empty at such an early hour. The especially early risers had already left, and those who preferred to spar later had not yet arrived. Frederick nodded for Carver to take his sword and assume a ready position.

"Tempest's Twist," he instructed, firmly, and Carver almost smiled.

Almost, but not quite. _With words for heaven..._ He let out an even breath, consciously relaxing into the beginning of the movement, and he heard Bethany's voice again, but it spoke not from some outside source, but from his own mind. He remembered sitting on the bed, hunched over her cupped hands as lightning flickered over her fingers.

 _We're twins,_ she whispered, reassuringly, _If I can do it, you can too._

For the first time, he believed her. He'd gone through the motions so many times that it was second nature, but it was somehow easier now. He didn't feel like Marian was staring at him over his shoulder. He'd made his decision, and the only surprise was that it had taken this long to make it. The movements weren't a strain, and the Chant was like a background hum in the recesses of his mind.

He felt it start to build. It wasn't magic, but it was a distant cousin to it. Perhaps it sprang from a similar place, but it was nothing like that he was used to feeling from his sisters, or from the mages in the Gallows. It wasn't a metallic taste in his mouth, but more the feeling that he was standing in a beam of sunlight, breeze rippling across his body. It built up in his muscles, seeming to spread outwards, flowing through his fingertips.

The world pulsed around him, the energy that was building up within his body being expelled in the last, final motion: a sideways slice, and a sharp exhale. He felt a little lightheaded, but he returned to a ready stance without wavering, and waited patiently for Frederick's assessment. When the elder Templar said nothing for several prolonged seconds, Carver chanced a glance at him.

Frederick looked satisfied, a small smile playing across his lips. "Return to your quarters, recruit. You can have the rest of the day off, and rejoin the others tomorrow."

Elation swelled, but he tamped down on it before it could show on his face. "Yes, sir."

~*~

"So what was it like?" Hardwick's curiousity was near tangible, and he gripped the edge of the table as he leaned forward, apparently trying to restrain himself from leaping across the dining hall to shake some answers out of Carver who was, at that moment, treating himself to some porridge enlivened with raisons. He'd contemplated adding something more adventurous to the mix, but his stomach had rebelled at the idea.

"Quiet," he lied.

"I can't believe you went into seclusion," Ro muttered. He was sure she was supposed to be on guard duty in the Gallows courtyard, but she was making no move to leave. "I can't believe you didn't tell us. Meredith and Cullen wouldn't say anything, just that you were 'unavailable'. We thought they'd kicked you out, except your stuff was still in the barracks."

"Your sister came to the Gallows," Hardwick said. The words burst out him; clearly he'd been dying to say them for a while. "Wasn't happy when Cullen wouldn't give up any information about you."

The thought that Marian was checking up on him didn't seem to bother him as much as it used to. It _did_ bother him, but only at a low level of irritation and annoyance. That all-consuming anger had faded. Marian, he'd realised, was not the most important thing in his life.

"That's her problem," he said, and had the pleasure of seeing Hardwick and Ro glance at each other in mild surprise. "What's been happening while I've been gone?"

"Half the time people were talking about you." Ro shrugged. "People are getting nervous about the Qunari, and things in the Gallows are the same as ever. Pretty quiet, all things considered."

"So they're _not_ going to be kicking you out?" Hardwick blurted out.

Ro kicked him under the table. He gave her a look of wounded betrayal.

"No," Carver said. "You're not rid of me that easily."

"Good," Hardwick said, "I'm glad."

"Me too," Ro said, and flashed him a small smile.

Carver wasn't sure what to think about her anymore. He gave her a smile in return, and dropped his eyes to his porridge. Hardwick, perhaps realising the awkwardness, launched into an anecdote about two of the recruits who were caught out of hours in the Blooming Rose, how their armour had been stolen by nefarious thieves probably to sell for scrap, and how they'd had to walk, mostly naked, back to the Gallows, all the way through Lowtown to the barge.

It was comforting.

~*~

Traditionally, in the final days before a recruit took his or her vows, they were entitled to seek counsel from whoever they chose, to be sure that their decision, a final and life changing one, was the one they sought to make. It wasn't enforced, and many recruits simply didn't bother. If they'd gotten through the training, they weren't going to balk at the final hurdle. Carver wondered if there was anyone he should consult, anyone whose opinions mattered enough to make him reconsider what he had already settled on. The answer was no, in the end, and so Carver took his place in the vigil the night before vows were taken with the nine other recruits who had been chosen to join the ranks of Knights. The Chantry doors were sealed; none would disturb them. They knelt slightly apart from each other, heads bowed in prayer. No one spoke. One or two snored, having succumbed to the dark and the quiet, usually to be elbowed awake after a while by one of their neighbours.

Meredith, Cullen, the senior Knights and the Grand Cleric Elthina arrived just before dawn. The recruits came up from their positions in the pews in silence, and moved to kneel before the altar. Meredith set down a goblet of plain, unadorned metal on the altar and poured into it a blue liquid that seemed to have a light of its own. It was the final test. Some recruits drank lyrium for the first time and had a bad reaction, sometimes dying, sometimes becoming crippled or simple minded.

 _Be strong of faith,_ Meredith had told them, before they had begun their vigil. _And you will join us as brothers and sisters in arms._

Elthina said a prayer, a speech that had their air of tradition and rote about it. It was a simple ceremony, lacking in ostentatiousness. It seemed appropriate. Carver barely heard a word she said. Instead, his own breathing, and that of the other recruits around him, seemed to swell in his ears.

"Step forward, Ser Carver." He half expected to hear his surname appended, but that was all Elthina said. He had elected to forsake his family name on entering the Order. Not an uncommon choice, but, to him, a very significant one.

Carver got to his feet, leather under-armor creaking with the movement. He took the goblet from Elthina's hands and stared into the cerulean depths of its contents.

"Blessings of the Maker be upon you," Elthina intoned, and gestured for him to drink.

"One small sip," Meredith advised, in an undertone.

Carver took a deep breath, and raised the goblet to his lips.

~*~ End ~*~  



End file.
